


Resembles the Grave

by intravenusann



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Adoption, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Magic, Child Neglect, Childhood, Cultural Alienation, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Ilvermorny, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Parent Death, Time Travel, Unrequited Love, World War I, time paradox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-01 16:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13298700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: Credence Barebone’s brush with death in the winter of 1926 sends him skipping through time and space in pursuit of revenge — and Percival Graves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. There is some underage content, specifically an adolescent Percival Graves attempts to kiss Credence Barebone who is in his twenties, and I think it's better to warn than to NOT warn. This fic will be three chapters and a brief coda. I should do weekly updates.

> "Always falling into a hole, then saying 'ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,' getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying 'ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,' getting out of that hole, falling into another one..."
> 
> — Anne Boyer, “what resembles the grave but isn’t” 

Credence Barebone feels himself being torn apart by magic. Vomit wells up in his mouth, hot and sour. He screams.

His dying thought: Percival Graves will pay for this.

How could he do this to him? How could he? Credence had believed him, believed in him. He had loved him more than his own mother, more than his own self.

Credence falls to his knees. He spits out mouthfuls of bile on a fine carpet.

The roar of the Obscurus in his brain is replaced with the high pitched wail that might be coming from his own throat. He wipes his mouth and stands up. He isn’t the one screaming.

In the dark of this place, wherever he is, Credence sees a wooden bassinet that floats in the middle of the air. 

Witchcraft, he thinks. When he moves, the room softly illuminates with impossible light from flower-shaped fixtures in the corners. This room, a nursery, is larger and more ornate than any of the places Credence has ever slept.

At the center of it all, a squalling infant. The baby is completely red in the face from screaming.

Credence looks around. No one comes to the door. He waits, expectantly. But the infant continues to wail. There are tears on its wet and spitty face. It looks like it was swaddled and has flailed its tiny arms free from the fabric.

He’s dead, Credence thinks, and this is Hell.

Modesty was already grown when Mary Lou adopted her, but she was hardly the first. He’d been old enough to help his Ma with Chastity when she was only a bit older than this. She had teeth, Credence remembers. Perhaps this babe is only crying because its teeth are coming in?

Of course, Credence is not so lucky.

He only has to pick the screaming, wailing thing up to know it’s cold and wet. How derelict must the parents, who can afford such wealth around their child, be to leave an infant for so long?

It’s a boy, Credence learns. He’s already thrown up on the floor, so it hardly matters what mess he makes cleaning up after this child. Credence’s anger wells up in his belly as he thinks of whoever left a baby like this. What sort of selfish, uncaring, horrible...

His lip curls slightly and in a snap of power the room rights itself. The soiled linens and the vomit on the floor disappear. Everything smells faintly of flowers.

Credence blinks.

The baby kicks his chubby legs and looks at Credence with large, dark eyes. When he picks it up again, the baby grabs onto his ear and drools on his collar. The pounding rage inside his chest begins to calm, and Credence realizes it was only his heart.

Credence walks around the room with this small thing in his arms until his anger fades to nothing and the baby falls asleep. He sets the baby down in the floating bassinet and, for a moment, watches the rise and fall of its tiny chest. There’s a small dark patch of skin on the baby’s round cheek, he notices. He reaches out and touches it, but the baby doesn’t stir.

When Credence was this small, did anyone love him? Or was he left to cry and cry like this?

He doesn’t know.

Outside the nursery, Credence hears footsteps. He pulls his hand back and steps away from the bassinet.

“The lights are on in the nursery,” someone says, a man. “How odd. I saw Milly sleeping downstairs.”

I need to go, Credence thinks. And then he’s gone.

The nursery replaces itself with a forest. Credence has never been anywhere more wild than Central Park and even there one can see the city on all sides. Here there are trees and more trees. He stumbles over branches and stomps through piles of dead, fallen leaves.

He finds the child by accident almost, nearly trips over it. 

Why is there a child in the woods?

There’s dirt all over the little thing’s dress and pieces of leaf in its curling hair. 

“No!” Credence says, as he watches the child pick up a handful of leaves and stuff them in its mouth.

“That’s filthy,” Credence says. “Disgusting.”

The child takes its hand and the leaves out of its mouth and laughs at him. Credence hears his Ma’s voice in his head. He flinches at the cold rush of memories. 

“Please don’t,” he says, softening his tone. “You could get sick and die.”

Why is there a child in the woods? Doesn’t it have anyone to look out for it?

Is Hell just a series of abandoned and unloved children like himself?

Credence feels like he’s going to be sick again. He goes to the child and picks her up. She’s wearing a dress, so she must be a girl. He’s shaking from his own memories and whatever magic he used to clean that nursery cannot be accessed now. The child gets leaves and dirt all over Credence’s clothes. She makes sounds, too young even to talk.

“Where did you come from?” Credence asks her all the same.

He walks for a very long time and the child never fusses. She seems happiest when Credence moves her so that she can look at him, but she also likes to hold him around the neck. She’s not too heavy, really. And she’s very warm to hold as the day grows colder.

Credence doesn’t know where he’s going, but eventually he spots smoke above the trees and hopes that it’s a sign of something. He remembers stories of witches houses in the woods and the unlucky, lost children who wandered into them. He wasn’t supposed to read those kinds of stories, but he had.

The smoke grows closer and eventually he hears a woman — a girl, really — calling out.

“Percy!” she says. “Percy!”

Credence draws close enough to hear her weeping. 

“Lady Graves is going to murder me,” the girl says. “How can a baby just disappear?”

“Are you Percy?” Credence asks the babe in his arms.

He thinks the girl will be grateful, but she screams at him to unhand the child. She calls him a thief and a brigand, then she pulls out a wand.

Credence sets Percy, who may not be a girl for the dress and curls after all, down on the ground as gently as possible and runs back into the woods.

He hears crying. 

His foot lands on a fallen bough and in the next step comes down hard on a wooden floor. 

A child shouts. Credence looks up and the woods are gone. All around him are towering shelves full of books. A library? The only light comes from the moon outside, casting silver shadows across the floor.

“It’s you!” the child says. “You’re real!”

Credence blinks. His eyes adjust from the low light of dusk in a forest to the total darkness of night.

“Percy?” Credence asks. 

“That’s me,” the child says.

He has an oddly foreign way of speaking, but so many people in New York don’t even speak English. It’s immoral to judge, Credence reminds himself. Prejudice is the refuge of the uncharitable and cruel who forget that God created all races. Even witches and wretches like him? Well, there is a limit to all charity.

“You found me in the forest,” Percy says. “My papa doesn’t believe in you. He thinks Lilian just lost me and made up a story.”

“Is Lilian your mother?” Credence asks.

“Nuh uh,” Percy says. “She’s the lady who watches me, but now I’ve got a tutor too and Siobhan who knows magic. I’m gonna go to Ilvermorny when I’m older, just like my sisters.”

“Is Ilvermorny a school?” Credence asks.

“Uh huh,” Percy tells him. “It’s the best school in the whole world and all the best witches and wizards go there.”

Credence nods. He thinks — but does not ask to confirm — that this child is Percival Graves. He died wanting to kill that man, but this boy…

This boy is not that man. 

He might become that man, Credence thinks.

“I’m supposed to be sleeping,” Percy says. “But I just learned how to read by myself and it’s…”

Percy sighs with his whole body. 

“It’s better than magic,” he says.

“What are you reading?” Credence asks. 

“The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” Percy says. 

“I’ve never heard of that,” Credence says.

“Really? But every wizard knows it!” Percy says.

“I’m not a wizard,” Credence says.

Percy’s dark, little eyebrows pull together over his dark eyes.

“But you apparrated,” he says. 

“No,” Credence says, “I didn’t.” He doesn’t even know the word.

When he gets closer he sees that Percy looks genuinely distressed with confusion.

“Never mind,” Credence says. “It doesn’t matter what I am, I’d still like you to read to me.”

When he sits on the bench in front of the towering window, Percy climbs onto his lap. Credence thinks of Modesty and reading to her about Moses and his brother Aaron, about the journey of God’s chosen people through the desert. 

The stories that Percy reads to him, in the slow and uncertain way of a young child who follows each word with his small finger, are nothing like that. They are not even like the stories that Credence was not supposed to read as a child. They’re not like any stories he has ever read in his life.

But he likes them.

“I’m getting tired,” Percy says. “Will you read to me?” 

“Yes,” Credence says.

And he reads until Percival Graves falls asleep in his arms. In sleep, he looks as innocent as any child. Credence couldn’t possibly hurt a child. He couldn’t.

He carefully sets the book aside, his mind buzzing with brothers and lovers and witches. He cannot say that the Lord’s good word does not have nearly as much death and sorrow.

Even more carefully, Credence moves the young Percival off of him. He doesn’t rouse at all. 

Credence finds the door to this library and steps out of it and into another part of Percival’s childhood.

This time, Percy asks his name.

“Credence,” he says, thinking that perhaps he could change the course of both their lives. Yes, that’s it. He can keep Percival Graves from whatever path brought him to cause Credence so much pain. He will not repay evil with evil, but with blessings and… And he will be blessed? Perhaps.

“Is that a real name?” Percival asks.

“Is Percival a real name?” Credence asks him.

Percy laughs. He is still young enough for short pants and long, curling hair.

“I’ve got an uncle named Percival and my great-great, uh, great-grandfather was named Percival,” he says.

As he grows, Percy tells him all about his family. Credence never sees them, except in portraits that frown and go silent when he walks by.

Credence rescues Percy from the topmost cupboard in the kitchen. He climbs onto the counter and stands, wondering how such a small boy could even get into such a position.

He finds him deep in a maze made of thorn bushes that shifts and changes whenever Credence turns his back on it. Here, Credence puts his hand around Percy’s small hand and shoulders through the thorns as though they were particularly stubborn pedestrians on the sidewalk the week before Christmas.

“Where is your mother?” Credence asks. “Where is your father?”

Dusk has settled over the manor house and turns the sky a beautiful dark shade of blue that Credence never saw in New York.

“Papa works,” Percy tells him, holding tightly to his hand. “Mama is sick in bed today and Marjorie is looking after her, so I went out by myself.”

Credence takes him back to the kitchen, because he knows where that is, and fixes them both a dinner of ham and cheese.

“Thank you,” Percy tells him.

As he grows, he begins to ask Credence questions in return.

“You always wear the same thing,” Percival says, sharing his lunch with Credence in a hidden garden on the Graves estate. “But your hair grows, so I don’t think you are imaginary or a ghost.”

Credence thinks he might be a ghost, but he doesn’t say that.

“What happened to your hands?” Percival asks.

When Credence looks at his own palms, Percy reaches out and touches his hand with both his small hands.

“My Ma,” Credence begins to say.

He wants to say “used to,” but it hasn’t even happened. Credence doesn’t ask Percival what year it is, but it’s possible that Credence hasn’t even been born yet. And now he’s dead, so it hardly matters.

“My Mama doesn’t hurt me,” Percival says. “I never see her, so she couldn’t.”

“I had a tutor who hit me, but Papa sent her away,” he says. “He doesn’t believe in core — cordial punishment.”

“Do you see your Papa?” Credence asks.

“Not often,” Percy says. 

“Are you a ghost?” he asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. 

“Ghosts are illegal,” Percy says. “But I won’t tell anyone about you, because I like you and if you were ex — exer — banished then I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.”

“You’d have your tutors,” Credence says.

Percy makes a face.

“Were you murdered?” Percival asks.

He looks up at Credence with more eagerness than Credence could have ever imagined on either of his sisters, who haven’t even been born yet. If this is real at all.

When Credence meets Percy again, he apologizes for asking Credence if he was murdered.

“I don’t think you are a ghost,” he says. “I’ve been reading and ghosts don’t eat and they never change. They’re not supposed to leave where they died.”

“I died in New York,” Credence says.

“Then you can’t be a ghost!” Percy says. He looks thrilled for a moment, but then he frowns.

“I’m sorry you died,” he says. “I hope it didn’t hurt.”

“It did,” Credence says.

Percy is just a child, Credence reminds himself. It’s not fair. It’s not  _ fair _ .

Credence’s hair is growing into his eyes. He eats and bathes and sleeps because Percival gives him the run of the house. It seems sad that there is a boy so alone in such a huge manor of a home with gardens and woods all around it. The paintings follow Credence with their eyes and whisper behind his back. They’ve all got the heavy eyebrows that Percival is growing into.

“When I grow up,” Percy says, “I’m going to be an auror.”

“What’s that?” Credence asks.

“You don’t know?” Percy asks. “It’s so strange the things you know and the things you don’t.”

But he explains to Credence what he thinks an auror is, though Credence wonders whether it’s the truth. He’s only a child after all.

“I’m going to be a powerful wizard just like all the wizards in my family and I’m going to protect people!” Percy says.

He grabs Credence by the hand and Credence only flinches a little.

“People like you,” Percy says.

“Alright,” Credence says. “See that you do that.”

“I will,” Percy says. “I promise.”

The year before he goes to school, Percy gets his hair cut short and cries about it. Credence’s hair, by then, falls into his eyes and down his neck. It curls too, just like Percival’s used to.

Credence lets a ten-year-old cut his hair. Honestly, Percy does a better job of it than Mary Lou Barebone ever did. He’s very careful and nervous. 

“I want it to look nice,” he says. His eyebrows look even heavier when he scowls at Credence’s hair. The haircut doesn’t do Percy any favors, really. He looks half-finished, as most children do at that age.

“I can fix your clothes too,” Percy says.

“With scissors?” Credence asks.

“With magic,” Percy says. “I already know a lot even though I haven’t gone to school yet.”

He has the same look of intense focus as he touches Credence’s jacket. The dirt evaporates and every snagged seam rights itself. The style of the clothing changes, also, and the fabric grows heavy with quality. 

In the end, Percy smiles up at him. He’s a bit red in the face.

“Did I do a good job, Credence?” he asks.

“I’m impressed,” Credence says. “But it’s a lot of black.”

“Black is a very serious color,” Percy says. “Because you’re a serious person.”

“Thank you, Percival,” Credence says. 

Percy’s smile doubles. He has a crooked canine tooth where it’s still growing in. His hair has been cut uniformly short in a way that makes it stick up in every direction, especially at the front. He has a mole to match the one on his cheek at just the edge of his hairline. 

Credence really can’t expect him to have particularly good taste. After all, he spends a lot of time with Credence, doesn’t he? It’s probably a bad influence.

The Graves estate serves as Credence’s home as much as it does Percival’s, so he recognizes immediately that he’s not there anymore the next time he sees Percy.

It is almost as alarming as the bright pink color of Percy’s short hair.

“What happened?” Credence asks.

“This awful girl in Horned Serpent jinxed me,” Percy says. He looks thunderously angry, an expression which gives Credence a moment of terrible remembrance.

“Did you also try to jinx her?” Credence asks.

Percy’s expression darkens further.

“If I knew magic, I’d help you fix your hair,” Credence says, “but you can’t go jinxing girls.”

“Why not?” Percy says. “She’s awful and she thinks she’s better than everyone because she got to pick what house she’s in.”

His lip twitches into a sneer. “She’s not that special.”

“Maybe she is,” Credence says. “That sounds rather special.”

“Don’t say that!” Percy says. “You can’t like her, you’re  _ my _ friend.”

Credence looks at Percival and, yes, now he can see how such a boy grew into exactly the man that Percival Graves will become. It fills him with a sudden, terrible anger. Credence turns and walks away from Percy.

“Wait!” Percy shouts, but he doesn’t follow Credence.

This must be Ilvermorny, Credence thinks. He tries not to be visibly startled at the sight of things — the horribly misshapen monsters and dark flickers of magic in every corner. He wanders the halls and no one stops him or asks him what he’s doing. He’s here and so they assume he’s meant to be here, Credence thinks. He ought to thank Percy for the tidy new clothes.

Credence steals through a kitchen staffed by monsters and none of them stop him from eating his fill. He goes back to where he last saw Percy and finds a communal bath to rival any of New York City’s bathhouses. 

Eventually, he goes and waits on a sofa. He sees people, then, at least. Children in maroon and blue robes come through carrying books. They glance at Credence, but never directly. Some of them are half-grown, clearly older than Percival. No one approaches Credence.

Percy, with his pink hair, stands out. 

He walks right up to Credence and says, “You’re still here.”

“I am,” Credence says.

Now the children around them are looking.

“And people can see you?” Percival asks.

Credence shrugs his shoulders. 

“Look,” Percival says, “I’m really sorry about before. I… I told Seraphina I was sorry too, when we had class together.”

“That was polite of you,” Credence says. 

“She still didn’t fix my hair,” Percival says.

“I can see that,” Credence says. 

“But you — you could fix it,” Percival says. “You apparrated into Ilvermorny and nobody can do that. You must be the most powerful wizard ever, Credence. Please, please fix my hair.”

His worried eyebrows look to Credence like a particularly pinched parentheses.

“I’m not a wizard,” Credence says.

“That’s bullshit,” Percival says.

Then he gasps and covers his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Credence,” he says.

“Since you’re here,” Percival says. “I could show you around.”

“Alright,” Credence says, though he’s given himself quite a tour of the castle already.

But it’s more pleasant with Percival explaining everything and talking about his classes. He has quite a lot to say about the girl who jinxed him, Seraphina. She is from Georgia, Credence learns, and there are little witches and wizards in Percival’s class from places as far away as Texas. There are a lot of boys in his house and all of the ones in his year sleep in the same place. 

Credence realizes that Percival has never been so far from his home before, even if his parents were rarely around, and never been amongst so many people his age.

He’s overwhelmed, Credence realizes, but trying to make the best of it.

And failing, if the pink hair is anything to go by.

Percival tells Credence about his wand and about his transfiguration classes. The only other student whose name he seems to know is Seraphina’s and she isn’t even in the same house as Percival. And, obviously, she’s a girl.

“Actually, Percival,” Credence says. “I think I can fix your hair.”

“I knew it!” Percival says.

He looks at Credence with absolute conviction, as though he truly believes in him. It is not simply that he wants his hair fixed, Credence realizes, but that he has too long relied on Credence at every moment. Is it Credence’s doing, then, what this boy is like? He couldn’t have left him in the thorn maze. He wouldn’t take any of it back.

Credence reaches out and puts both his hands on top of Percival’s head. Both of them shut their eyes.

Just let him make some friends, Credence thinks, he doesn’t deserve to have just me anymore. Even Modesty had friends. Even  _ Chastity _ had friends.

Credence didn’t, but that seems a distant thing now. It’s in his past. It’s in the future.

He takes his hands away and opens his eyes. Percival’s hair has gone back to a dark, mousy brown without even a hint of pink in it.

“Is it fixed?” he asks.

“Completely,” Credence tells him.

Percival hugs him, then, a sudden burst of movement.

It startles Credence so severely that he disappears.

But he finds he’s still in Ilvermorny. It’s just that Percival, in his maroon and blue robes, is gone. This isn’t where Credence was a moment ago.

In the distance, he hears music. He walks away from the sound, trying to orient himself. He sees some of the monsters that serve as the school’s caretakers. A few of them carry huge platters of food. 

By chance, Credence finds a door that leads out onto the roof of a tower. The air is frigid enough to steal the breath right out of him. He doesn’t know if it’s winter, but it feels like it. His skin breaks out in gooseflesh and his teeth start to chatter. He clenches his jaw and braces against the wind.

“Credence!” someone says.

“Is it really you?”

He could ask Percival the same thing. In whatever time has passed Percival has grown ten inches or more. He’s grown his hair out, though it’s not nearly as long as it was before he went to school. He looks weedy and strange, his face still very round and his skin a little spotty. His robes are all black and he wears a fur hood.

“You must be freezing,” Percival says. His voice cracks a little.

“Here,” he says. He takes off his furs and offers them to Credence.

“We could go inside,” Credence says.

“No!” Percival says.

“Alright,” Credence says. He accepts Percival’s fur and tucks his hands into it rather than wrap it around his shoulders. His hands always hurt the most when it’s cold.

“Why are you out here?” Credence asks.

“It’s Yule,” Percival says. “So everyone is at the school ball and it’s terrible.”

Credence waits for Percival to elaborate on that. He crosses his arms over his chest and huffs and puffs into the cold instead.

“Haven’t you got any friends?” Credence asks eventually.

“I’ve got loads of friends,” Percival says. “I just…”

He sighs.

“Seraphina asked me to go with her, but she’s spent the whole time I was there trying to talk to this sixth year Thunderbird boy, Joseph.”

“That’s rather rude of her,” Credence says.

“Yes!” Percival agrees. “He’s not even that great, you’re way taller than Joseph Builds-the-fire  _ and _ you’re definitely a stronger wizard, because you can apparate in Ilvermorny and you travel through time.”

“Can I?” Credence says.

“Well, you’re not imaginary,” Percival says. “I thought maybe you were, cause I haven’t… You haven’t visited me in a while now, and I thought maybe I just dreamed you up.”

He looks away from Credence then.

“But you’re here!” he says. “So you’re really real and everyone in Wampus house remembers you visiting me. I mean, none of our teachers saw, but we all did. You were here.”

“I was,” Credence says.

Percival looks at him again and smiles. 

“And now you’re here again,” Percival says. “Maybe you could come to the Yule ball with me.”

Perhaps Credence makes a face at that — though he doesn’t mean to.

Percival hurries to add, “Or not!”

“Actually,” he says, just as quickly, “no one will be back at the Wampus commons. We could have it all to ourselves!”

As they walk through the halls of the school, Percival’s voice cracks a few more times. But he keeps on chattering about all the things that have happened.

“I haven’t seen you in years,” he says. “But you look just the same! You’re still wearing the clothes I fixed for you.”

“I haven’t had the time to change,” Credence says. 

This makes Percival laugh.

The Wampus common room has a cat — Credence presumes it’s a wampus — tiled into the stone floor.

A pair of sweaty-palmed teenagers kisses and embraces on what Credence thinks is the couch he sat on the last time he was here.

“Gross,” Percival says.

Credence returns the furs now that they're in a room with a roaring fireplace, and Percival grabs his outstretched hand.

“Come with me,” he says.

“I still think those clothes look good,” Percival says. “Black is a good color, it’s a very handsome color.”

He glances at Credence.

“But I could change it,” he adds. “If you wanted something different. I’m even better at that kind of thing now, especially with a wand. But even without a wand, I’m the top of my class at wandless magic. Professor Nampeyo says I’m very advanced for a wizard of my age.”

“Congratulations,” Credence says, and Percival smiles at him so wide that his soft face reminds Credence of a squirrel preparing for winter. That’s a very unflattering image, he knows. He would never tell Percival such a thing.

“I like these clothes,” Credence says. “And if black is a handsome color, like you say, then it’s not so bad to wear all black.”

“You look very good,” Percival says. “I mean, it’s a good color on you.”

“Thank you,” Credence says. He feels himself smiling slightly.

“Uhm,” Percival says. He chews on his lower lip. 

“You can sit on my bed if you want,” he offers. 

Credence does, just to be polite. It’s an astonishingly uncomfortable bed, with a lumpy mattress on a wooden slats. Credence would probably sleep on the stone floor instead. Percival kneels at the edge of the bed and digs around beneath it with both hands. He mutters something in a language that Credence doesn’t know as he does it.

“Do you celebrate Yule?” he asks. His chin is on the bed, level with Credence’s knee.

“No,” Credence says.

“Oh,” Percival says. “What about Hanukkah? Or, uh, Christmas?”

“No,” Credence says. “Ma forbade celebrations.”

Percival pulls his arms out from under the bed, clutching something in both hands. He sits down on the bed beside Credence.

“That’s sad,” Percival says. “But your Ma’s not here, right?”

“What year is it?” Credence asks.

“1899,” Percival says, “but next month is January, so it’s almost a new century!”

Credence hasn’t even been born yet, he thinks. He has no idea where Mary Lou might be in the world, but she’s probably in New York City. He wonders when Percival will come to New York. He still hopes that he can change the course of Percival’s life, so that he might change his own as well. 

Failing that, perhaps he could steal his own infant self away from Mary Lou before she ever hurt him. 

“Here,” Percival says. “I was going to give this to Seraphina.”

“I thought she was your friend,” Credence says.

“She is,” Percival says. “But you’re… I’ve known you forever and I’ve never given you a Yule present before.”

“No one has,” Credence says.

“I’m the first?” Percival asks. “Really?”

“I don’t think I should accept this,” Credence says. Percival has pressed himself almost against Credence’s shoulder and he looks up at him as Credence slouches over and looks at the little box in his lap.

“You should give it to Seraphina,” he says. 

“No way,” Percival says. He presses himself against Credence’s side, then. 

“You deserve this more than she does,” Percival says.

Credence sighs and looks at Percival from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to encourage the boy — now turning into a young man — to be closed-hearted and mean.

“Get your friend another gift, then,” he says. “Don’t be cruel to her just because she was rude to you. We must treat people better than they treat us.”

“Why?” Percival asks.

“Because it is the right thing to do,” Credence tells him. “How can you expect the people you meet to treat you well if you don’t treat others well?”

Percival considers this quietly for a while, or seems to. He looks at Credence for a long time and then sighs. Neither of them says anything. Pericval reaches over and puts his hand on Credence’s.

“I still want you to have it,” Percival says. “Seraphina will get loads of presents and I can still get her something nice, but if you’ve never gotten a gift then, uhm, I could be the first.”

“If you insist,” Credence says.

He takes his hand out from under Percival’s and pulls the ribbon on the box free. He lifts the top off carefully and find a silver flower nestled into red silk. At a touch, the bud opens like a blooming peony, every petal shimmering.

“Percival,” Credence says. “I can’t possibly accept this.”

“Yes, you can,” Percival says. He reaches over and pluck the silver flower out of the box.

“I’ll put it on you,” he says. “Here, turn toward me.”

Credence thinks of Percival as a child, whose whims he is indulging. He turns with a bit of a sigh. Percival sticks himself with the pin trying to attach it to Credence’s lapel. He hisses and puts his thumb in his mouth, then gets right back to work.

He smooths down the front of Credence’s jacket when he’s done.

“There,” he says, and smiles.

“Thank you, Percival,” Credence says.

He is trying to think of the words to get Percival to take the pin back. It’s lovely, but far too expensive. Clearly, Seraphina is the better recipient. A little witch the same age as Percival would be delighted at such a gift. Surely, it would be the start of some school-age romance for Percival; Credence would hate to have ruined such a thing. 

He is very busy thinking this over when Percival leans forward and presses his mouth against Credence’s.

Credence jerks away. His mouth is wet. He wipes it with his hand.

“Percival,” he says, voice sharp. He pulls away from Percival’s hands and gets to his feet. He means to lecture him, but even those words escape him. 

Credence doesn’t even have the time to remove the pin before he’s gone.

He finds himself in a very small, dark place with only the light at the end of Percival’s wand.

“Merlin’s fucking beard, Credence!” Percival says. He’s wide-eyed with alarm — and even taller than Credence remembers.

He glances down. Credence realizes that he must see the silver flower. Percival goes quite pink.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About all that.”

“It’s fine,” Credence says. There is no need to lecture Percival about something which, for him, occurred years ago. He reminds himself that he gave his sisters kisses when they were very small, though he is well aware that Percival did not intend to be brotherly. Credence is not stupid.

Percival looks away and chews on his lip. His hair is now long enough to pull back into a little tail at the base of his skull. He has it tied with a black ribbon, which only emphasizes how brown it is.

“Why are we hiding in a closet?” Credence asks.

“Uhm,” Percival says. “Do you know what a wampus cat is?”

“That’s your house, isn’t it?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Percival says. 

Credence frowns. 

“There’s a wampus cat in your school,” he says.

“Yes,” Percival says.

“Your doing?” Credence asks.

“Well, actually, it was some of the older students, but I…,” Percival stops and looks down. “Helped.”

“Then you’ve got to help get rid of it,” Credence says.

“But the wampus cat — it’s capable of legilimency, it knows if you’re going to attack it,” he says. 

“It predicts the future?” Credence asks.

“No, legilimency,” Percival says, “not divination. It, uhm, it can read your thoughts.”

Credence nods. “Well, I’m not going to attack it.”

“What?” Percival squeaks.

He grabs Credence’s arm, but he’s not yet a man and Credence has eaten well in whatever time has passed since he died. All Percival manages to accomplish is having himself bodily dragged out of the small hiding hole at Credence’s side because he refuses to let go.

“Credence,” Percival pleads. “What are you doing?”

“I can travel great distances,” Credence says. “When I want to, when I try.”

“Oh,” Percival says.

“I’ll take your wampus cat somewhere more comfortable than a school full of children,” he explains.

Percival holds onto him with one hand and clutches his glowing wand in the other. It’s not even strange to him anymore, Credence realizes, all these wands and monsters. The darkened halls of Ilvermorny echo with each footstep. None of the monsters Credence remembers creep the halls. Has the cat scared them off?

“Here kitty, kitty,” Credence says, the way he used to call the alley cats who were so good at keeping away rats and pigeons.

“Kitty, kitty,” he says, soft as a whisper. The stones of the castle carry his voice.

“My name,” a voice says inside Credence’s head, “is not Kitty.”

“My apologies,” Credence says. “What is your name?”

“I do not share such things with mere men,” the voice says. It rumbles inside of Credence’s skull like it’s rattling his brain.

“Your companion wants to kill me,” the voice says.

“He won’t,” Credence says. “He’s just afraid.”

“Frightened men do awful things,” the voice says. “But you know that, don’t you, Credence?”

He feels claws kneading through his thoughts, teeth pulling his memories apart and biting through them like animal bones. It makes Credence’s shoulders tense up and his hands ache. His stomach roils.

“Stay here, Percival,” Credence says.

“But you’ll be killed,” he says. He looks so young. He  _ is _ so young. And he is so afraid.

“I’m already dead,” Credence tells him. “I’ll be fine. She just wants to go home. You understand, don’t you?”

He holds Percival Graves’ face the way he remembers this man is going to touch him in another twenty or so years. His hands are firm and Percival presses into them without hesitation. For a moment, his eyes slowly close. Credence waits for them to open again.

“You remember your first year,” he says. “I could tell you were lonely and you just wanted to go home. But you belonged here, Percival, and she doesn’t.”

Percival nods as best he can with Credence holding him by the cheeks. He puts his arms around Credence and pulls their bodies together. He comes up past Credence’s chin now.

“You’re not dead,” Percival says, pressing his face against Credence’s shoulder. “You’re right here.”

Credence finds the cat crouching at the top of a cupboard. She drops down, all golden fur and glowing gold eyes.

“I think I remember how to do this,” Credence says.

“You had better,” she says into his mind.

She pushes her very large head against his hand when he reaches out for her. She has, he realizes, six legs. It takes all of Credence’s focus. He thinks about the snow and the forest outside. He thinks about the woods where he found Percival when he was very small. He thinks of the sick fear he felt realizing the babe in his arms was Percival Graves. He thinks of all the memories the wampus cat has put her claws into. Things he has let himself forget, so absorbed in the life of Percival Graves.

The darkness inside of Credence swallows them up.

And they’re gone.

Halfway down Mount Greylock, Credence releases the wampus cat.

“Thank you,” she says, before she leaps into a tree with the power of all six legs.

“I think I can get home from here on my own,” she says. “I owe you a boon, Credence Barebone.”

What is a cat’s boon to a dead man?

“That boy loves you dearly,” she tells him. “You should go let him know you’re alive. You are alive, by the way. If you were dead, I would just eat you. That’s your kindness returned.

Credence frowns.

He starts to climb up the mountain and tires quickly, not in body but in spirit. He leans against a tree and feels the past and future weighing him down. Is he making any difference? Can he? If Percival loves him then surely he will… He will, what? Credence has no idea. 

He closes his eyes and disappears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter describes images of domestic violence, violence in war, and supernatural violence. There is also mention of bodily injury, especially being burned.
> 
> I need to thank burgundians and emmel for helping me a lot with the research for the war parts, so even if those don't feel very historically accurate or anything. They tried to help me not be a fucking hack.

 

> “For by my glee might many men have laughed,  
> And of my weeping something had been left,  
> Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,  
> The pity of war, the pity war distilled.  
> Now men will go content with what we spoiled.  
> Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.”
> 
> — Wilfred Owen, “Strange Meeting”

When he opens his eyes again, Credence is out of the woods. But he has no idea where he is. He leans against a paneled wood wall instead of a tree. He turns around and looks at a room he’s never been in.

Percival Graves rises from his seat at a small table so violently it tips the wooden chair onto the floor. Credence winces at the sound.

“Credence!” Percival says.

He cross the room and grabs Credence with both arms, hugging him so tight that Credence feels the air rush out of him. Percival’s hair has been trimmed short and slicked back. He looks young, but no longer like a child. He smells like laundry starch and aftershave.

Credence puts a hand against his back and feels the lacings of his waistcoat.

“I’m so happy to see you,” Percival says, with his face buried in Credence’s shoulder. “God, it’s been years.”

He pulls away, “Well, two. I’ve graduated.”

“This is... your apartment?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Percival says. He smiles, but it’s wavering.

“I know it’s small,” he says. “Certainly nothing like the family estate, but there’s plenty of room for another body.”

Credence blinks.

“And you’re still wearing that pin,” Percival says. “Wow, that really takes me back. I didn’t see you much while I was in school, did I? But that hardly matters. You’re here now.”

“Yes, I am,” he says.

“I’ve started my training to be an auror,” Percival says. “There’s an academy.”

“Where are we?” Credence asks. He knows the Graves estate and Ilvermorny are in Massachusetts.

“New York City,” Percival says with a grin. “It’s pretty exciting. I can’t believe I’m living here. And now, you! You’re here!”

“New York,” Credence says. He looks around at Percival’s small and ordinary apartment. There are books along the walls without a bookcase to hold them. His bed is small enough for only one body. There’s a metal washtub overturned with a linen cloth thrown over it and more books stacked on top.

“What year?” Credence asks.

“Nineteen-oh-four,” Percival says. “It’s September 3, 1904 exactly.”

Somewhere outside the door of this apartment, Credence Barebone has already been born. Has he already fallen into Mary Lou’s clutches? Or is he with the woman who birthed him, that wicked and unnatural creature?

A witch, Credence thinks, his mother was a _witch_. Just as Percival is a wizard.

“You missed my graduation by a few months,” Percival says. “But that’s fine. Mama wasn’t able to make it either. I think she wanted to, but she was in bed on the doctor’s orders. Papa never intended to come at all. It would have been awful if he had, really, since he never went to my sisters’ graduations and they did come to mine.”

He has not taken his hands off of Credence yet. He also hasn’t stopped talking.

“Did I ever tell you that my sisters are actually from Papa’s first marriage? They’re much older than me, that’s why they were never at the estate. They’re both married now, but they came all the way to the mount to see my ceremony.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Credence says.

“Like I said, it’s fine,” Percival tells him. “I’m happy just to see you again.”

He smiles at Credence as though he cannot physically stop himself. Credence looks at him and thinks he finally looks something like the Percival Graves he remembers. He has a very tall, stiff collar and a tie. All his clothes look old fashioned, but Credence imagines that he is the height of style. He wears all black and white.

“Congratulations, Percival,” Credence says. “For all you’ve accomplished and all you’re going to accomplish.”

Percival lets out a sudden breath and looks down. His hands finally fall from Credence’s arms.

“Thank you,” he says.

Then he looks up again. “Would you like some tea? I should make us something to drink.”

At the wave of Percival’s hand, a kettle appears and the stove lights itself. There’s a sink and faucet in the apartment, but no toilet that Credence can see and only one door. There’s a trunk near the bed and a tall mirror, so Credence can guess that’s where Percival dresses. The fallen chair rights itself and the other seat at the table draws back so that Credence can sit there.

“How have you been?” Percival asks.

“Well,” Credence says. “You know, not much time passes for me between our visits.”

“That explains why you’re still so beau — young,” Percival says, “after all these years.”

Credence doesn't wish to embarrass him, so he simply nods. He asks after Percival’s marks in his last years at Ilvermorny and then about the auror training. He learns so much about magic just by listening to him talk and talk and talk. Percival moves his hands a great deal when he talks. He smiles at Credence even while he drinks from his porcelain teacup.

“Please stay the night,” Percival says. “Stay for dinner and get cleaned up. You can have the bed, I can easily sleep on the floor.”

Credence thinks of the lumpy mattress on the bed at Ilvermorny.

“I can sleep on the floor just as well as any bed,” Credence says.

“I couldn't have that, Credence,” he says. “You're my friend and my first guest here.”

“Seraphina doesn't visit?” Credence asks.

“Oh, uhm, no,” Percival says. “She's very busy with the training also. We see each other every day anyway.”

Credence nods and sips his tea.

He stays, because he sees an opportunity to do something he has contemplated doing for so many days or weeks or months. Credence has no idea how much time has passed for him since he died. He also has not slept in a bed or anywhere since the Graves estate.

He really did not see much of Percival while he was in school.

He watches as Percival lifts his cup to his mouth.

“I don't see why we couldn't share the bed,” Credence says.

Percival’s hand quakes and he spills tea onto the table.

“Sorry,” Percival says. His magic cleans things up in less than a blink and he sets the teacup down carefully.

“That was terribly clumsy,” he says. “But I'm — I mean, I don't mind sharing.”

Credence holds his teacup with both hands to warm them. He nods.

“Does this mean you'll stay?” he asks. “Here? With me?”

“For a while,” Credence says.

Then he adds, “If I'm able.”

Percival looks at him in a way that Credence is certain no one has ever looked at him before, not ever. Credence smiles for a moment before he wonders if he once looked at Percival Graves that way.

The bed has a much more comfortable mattress than the one at Ilvermorny. Percival lends Credence a pair of his pajamas. As it turns out, the toilet is down the hall and tends to get jinxed by other bachelor wizards who are angry with their neighbors for rattling the pipes at all hours.

But still, Percival lives comfortably. He tries to make breakfast for Credence at nearly four in the morning when he wakes up to get ready for his studies at the academy. He burns both eggs and toast, but Credence doesn’t particularly mind.

He goes into the city with no money in his pockets and finds that Percival lives in an area of Manhattan that Credence knows like the lines on the palm of his hand. He looks only a few times for buildings that don’t exist and businesses which haven’t yet been established. The few cars that drive through the mucky streets are open and move like slow, gawky carriages. They must seem like magic to all the people used to seeing horses.

He goes out of his way to watch the Third Avenue Line move overhead. Or, perhaps, it isn’t out of his way at all. He doesn’t really have a way.

He looks at the women who move along the sidewalks with him, refusing to make eye contact with a strange man. Their clothes and shoes seems so odd and conservative to Credence, even the shapes of their bodies. He never thought he cared about clothing — to care would be vanity or lechery.

But of course, he has always noticed what Percival Graves wears.

Credence swipes an apple off a grocer’s display and then heads back to Percival’s apartment.

One of the books on the overturned tub turned bedside table reads, “A Concise History of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, from 1693 to 1865.”

Credence picks it up and begins to read. The apple is soft against his teeth, which is what he deserves for thieving.

Percival left before dawn and returns after dusk with soot smudged on his left cheek and his hair falling out of its slick style.

“Have you seen yourself?” Credence asks.

“I don’t want to,” Percival says.

Credence sets the book down and goes to him.

“Come here,” he says, and then wets his thumb in his mouth. He scrubs the soot off Percival’s face with a bit of spit and effort.

“Oh,” Percival says. His mouth perfectly forms the shape of the sound.

He steps back with color in his cheeks. “I must look frightful.”

He smooths a hand over his hair, which does nothing but make it more disheveled.

“I should wash up,” he says. “Then we could — I mean, would you like to go out to dinner? There are so many good restaurants in this city and I’ve not even been to half of them, I’m sure.”

Credence sits in bed and reads while Percival fills the tub. They both bathed yesterday and he hadn’t thought anything of it, but now he wonders if it makes Percival uncomfortable to be naked with Credence in the room. Should he offer to leave? It’s not as though he looks up from his book at all.

It’s fascinating, really, and he’s caught the name “Barebones” at least twice. There are notes in the margins, too, which help Credence keep all the Graveses straight. Not all of them are related, apparently.

“Credence,” Percival says to get his attention. “I left the water hot for you, if you wanted to use it.”

“Thank you,” he says.

Percival has shaved his face, stripping off the dark stubble on his rather rectangular face. It makes him look terribly young, especially when Credence knows how he’s going to look with grey in his hair and the shadow of a beard. The Percival Graves that Credence remembers always looked like he was simply too busy to keep a close shave, but he was so put together that it hardly mattered.

While Credence undresses, Percival finds some reason to turn his face toward the walls.

“You can look,” Credence says, “if you want.”

“I shouldn’t,” Percival says.

He goes and sits at the table, papers flying out of the leather case he dragged back from the academy. Percival hunches himself over his work so that all Credence can really see is his shoulders.

“You’ve had a lot of family in the government,” Credence says.

Percival’s head pops up, though Credence still only sees the back of it.

“Yes,” he says.

“Why didn’t you go into politics?” Credence asks.

“You know,” Percival says, and Credence waits for him to say more.

He doesn’t.

The linen is all that Percival has to pass for a towel, but it does well enough. Credence can do some things, but the easy magic of Percival’s cleaning and drying charms feels beyond him. He’s not a wizard after all.

Credence half dresses himself and goes to shave, because the dark hair crops up quickly along his jaw. If Percival is going to shave before they go out, then Credence will follow his lead.

But he is thinking more about the Percival he knew before, the one with silver in his hair, than what he's doing. Credence cuts himself. Not deeply, but enough to draw blood.

Credence turns his head and presses two fingertips against the spot at the corner of his jaw.

“Percival,” he says.

“Yes?” he says, and this time he turns around. Credence watches his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes get so wide that Credence can see the whites all around the edges of his irises.

“Do you have,” Credence starts. “An alum block? Or anything to stop the bleeding?”

Percival blinks.

“No?” he says.

Credence frowns.

“Uhm,” Percival says. He gets up from his seat and walks over. Credence notices, when he draws closer, that he is not looking him in the eye. He doesn’t mind.

“We have charms for this sort of thing,” Percival says. “Here, let me.”

He lightly touches the corner of Credence’s jaw. It doesn’t feel anything other than warm.

“You have a lot of scars,” Percival says.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“I remember,” he says, “I always wanted to ask you about them, but I know it’s rude to… To bring attention to that kind of thing.”

“You asked when you were very small,” Credence says. “About my hands.”

“You said your mother hurt you,” Percival says. “I remember that.”

He touches the corner of Credence’s jaw and then his cheek, right below his eye.

“She did this?” he asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“I’m sorry,” Percival says.

Credence doesn’t think that does much good, but he doesn’t know what to say.

“Let me finish dressing,” he says. “Then we can go out to dinner.”

“Of course,” Percival says. “I didn’t mean — uhm, I’ll get out of your way.”

Credence buttons up and fixes his collar.

“If you want to wear something different,” Percival says. “You could have some of my clothes — I mean, to borrow.”

Credence looks at his reflection and touches the silver petals on his pin. The metal gives slightly, as though it were a real flower.

“I like these clothes,” he says. “Perhaps when we do laundry, I’ll need something else to wear.”

“Oh,” Percival says. “I don’t usually do my own laundry.”

Credence looks at him and he ducks his head.

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” he says. “But… later. We should go, if you’re ready.”

They apparate together, which feels to Credence much like he’s a piece of black thread being pulled through the eye of a needle. It doesn’t feel that way when he travels through space or time — that doesn’t feel like anything at all. It simply happens.

Credence shakes his head slightly to clear the sensation.

“I’ve never been here before, actually, but everyone says it’s really, uhm, good,” Percival says. He looks away from Credence before he’s even finished speaking.

If Percival’s behavior didn’t make it clear enough, Credence can recognize that he’s being courted by the sheer opulence of the restaurant Percival leads him to.

He expected a dining club for bachelors — maybe even a magical one. Instead, they take a hidden lift serviced by a stout, hideous little monster to the top of one of New York’s taller buildings. The ceiling seems made of glass, but Credence knows that all the sparkling stars he sees overhead could never be seen through all the coal smoke and clouds over Manhattan. It’s beautiful, though, far outshining all the gold and marble around them.

Credence tips his head back and stares at the heavens.

“I’m impressed,” he says.

Percival’s expression goes soft with delight when Credence glances over at him.

Percival only has to state his name to the strange creature acting as hostess and she scurries to find him a table for two.

Credence has no frame of reference to say whether the table is “good” or not, but Percival asks him that. He asks him to pick what they’ll eat and drink too, as though Credence knows anything of fine dining or wine. He picks things at random off a menu hand-written in spidery letters in red ink.

“Cranberry,” Percival says. “We used it all the time in school.”

The entrecôte steak and honey-glazed vegetables settle heavy in Credence’s stomach. He’s never eaten such rich foods in his life and can feel it affecting him. He feels tired before he’s finished even half a glass of wine.

But the stars are beautiful and so is Percival’s smile.

They return to Percival’s apartment arm in arm and Credence leans heavily against Percival’s side. He’s taller than him, he realizes. All this time, he has remembered Percival Graves as this impossible and imposing figure. But they take their shoes off for bed and Credence notices that he’s eye-level with Percival’s forehead.

He reaches out and musses Percival’s hair.

“Hey!” he says, and takes Credence by the wrist.

Percival looks into Credence’s eyes, then, and grows very quiet. They’re very close. Credence is wearing another set of Percival’s pajamas, which are dark blue and terribly soft.

“I had a wonderful night,” Percival says, eventually.

“So did I,” Credence says.

In the dark, with Percival breathing softly beside him, Credence realizes that he could have kissed him. That was the strange, unsmiling silence between them. That’s what made Percival look at him that particular way. At any point in their whole evening, Credence could have kissed him and he’s sure that Percival would have kissed him in return.

He turns over and faces the back of Percival’s head.

It isn’t fair, he thinks. It isn’t just or right or good. He falls asleep thinking of everything it isn’t.

Percival has training with the academy six days a week, which means that Credence does the laundry alone in the apartment and Percival thanks him profusely afterwards. He takes him for dinner at a new restaurant every night that Credence will consent to going out. Percival never makes a reservation, but there is always a table available for a Graves.

Credence reads his way through the history book and then through another and another. He goes to the library and looks up names. He goes to the corner where the church Mary Lou Barebone is going to build will stand and finds only a wide and empty alley.

The truth is that until she told him plainly that he wasn’t her son, there was a part of Credence which simply accepted Mary Lou as his mother. He can remember no life before her and even his earliest memories sting with pain. For all those years, he believed that she was his mother and that he must deserve her hatred. Was it Modesty’s arrival that changed him? Or something before that? When did he decide that he didn’t deserve to be in pain any longer?

He can only remember when he decided that, perhaps, others deserved pain — and that was directly after Percival Graves first told him that he needed Credence’s help.

An itching anxiety trails him through New York City’s streets and lingers behind his ribs whenever he hides away in Percival’s apartment.

“We haven’t spent so much time together since I was a child,” Percival says. “Or even then, I don’t think you’ve ever stayed this long.”

It’s been days and Credence is no closer to answers than he was when he arrived. If anything, he has only more questions.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I don’t think I have.”

Percival’s easy smile falters.

“Credence,” he says, “there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Is it about my scars?” Credence asks.

“No,” Percival says.

Then, “Yes.”

“I mean, not exactly, no.”

Credence looks at him and he can feel that one of his eyebrows raises just slightly higher than the other. It makes Percival look away from him quickly.

“The last time I saw you,” Percival says, “you told me that you were dead, and when I was young I always thought you were a ghost. But you’re not, I know you’re not. I just, I wondered why you would say something like that and, I mean, does it have to do with your mother?”

Credence finishes dressing for bed and then goes and sits down.

It has to do with you, he thinks. It has to do with Percival Graves.

And the Percival Graves standing before him now is not a child any longer. There’s not much softness left in his face anymore, not like there used to be. If he wanted, he could easily grow a beard. He could marry. He could go into politics. He could do anything, Credence thinks, anything at all that he wanted in all the world. He has magic and money and respect. The whole world moves to accommodate a Graves like the anxious hostess of an upscale restaurant.

“It’s because I died,” Credence says.

He watches Percival turn his face towards him and scowl as heavily as he can. The weight of his eyebrows conveys his thoughts magnificently.

“I’m going to die,” Credence says. “In 1926, in the winter, and you’re going to be there.”

“I am?” Percival asks. “Do I try to save you? I try to save you, don’t I?”

A lump forms in Credence’s throat, as though telling Percival this hurts him. He swallows it and the feeling sits heavy in his stomach like undigested meat.

“No,” Credence says. “Not really.”

Percival opens his mouth but doesn’t speak.

“There is something terrible in me,” Credence says, quietly. “I don’t know what it is, not really, but you’re going to hurt me because of it. I will believe that you’re my friend and you will betray me.”

“No!” Percival says. He brings his fist down hard against the table. Credence’s body jolts back without a thought. His shoulders tense up to his ears.

“Oh, Credence,” Percival says. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not — I’m — I’m —”

He looks wide-eyed, half lost and half furious. His cheeks are getting red.

“I would never do that,” Percival says.

“Then you think I’m lying,” Credence says.

“No!” Percival says.

He gets up then and comes toward Credence, but Credence jerks away from him. His mind overlays this youthful face with the one from his memories. Percival’s voice, he thinks, is the same.

“I believe you, Credence,” he says. “I do, but I… I won’t do it. I swear it. You’re my friend, my closest friend, and I would rather die than hurt you.”

“You already have,” Credence says.

Percival opens his mouth and then shuts it. He looks angry, but he walks away from Credence.

“I don’t know how to apologize for something that I haven’t done yet,” Percival says. “But I’m sorry.”

He holds up his hand and, with a tug in the open air, Percival yanks the linen off the metal tub and transforms it into a blanket. Credence thinks about how he’s been using that linen to dry himself after he bathes.

“I’m going to sleep on the floor,” Percival says.

He’s angry, Credence thinks, but he’s not lashing out.

Not yet.

Is this it? Has Credence guaranteed his own future by telling Percival about it?

In the morning, Credence wakes in an empty apartment. Percival is gone — presumably to his training, but it may be that he simply couldn’t stand to be in the same room with Credence any longer. It seems even more likely that Credence has shattered whatever affection Percival had for him with this, the truth.

He goes out with no real intention of returning.

It will be difficult, Credence thinks. But he has done more difficult things.

Like the passage of time, Percival and his anger are not anything that Credence can stop.

Somewhere in this city, Credence has already been born. Assuming that he was born in New York City, that he lived his whole painful life here and never left until after he’d died.

It makes him angry to think about and he carries that anger within him like the seed at the hard center of a fruit — the stone of a cherry, the core of an apple, the pit of a peach. In the library, people avoid him as he pours over collections of names and addresses. He walks to each, both hoping he finds Mary Lou and terrified at the very thought of her.

He would kill her now, if he could.

But he doesn’t find her. He’s hungry and it’s been days or weeks or months since he was truly hungry. Percival has fed him well and treated him softly.

After dark, he walks all the way to Central Park for lack of anything else to do. He could probably sleep here, he thinks. He’s certainly slept in rougher places.

But he’s too angry to think of sleep and his empty belly feels as though it’s gnawing on the stone of anger within him. He feels dizzy with it. He sways slightly on his feet at he ascends the bridge over the pond. Do these places have names? He thinks of them almost as The Bridge and The Pond.

The air is cold and clear, as clear as it ever gets in the city. He looks down at the dark water and sees the movement of light reflected off the clouds overhead.

“Credence!” someone calls out.

He looks up.

“Credence!”

Percival Graves stands at the foot of the bridge. He races toward Credence in long strides until he reaches the highest part of the bridge. He’s red in the face and breathing hard.

“How did you find me?” Credence asks. “Magic?”

“No, I — I mean, shit, I hadn’t tried that yet, I don’t think I have anything of yours, it wouldn’t have worked anyway,” Percival says. “I just went looking and I — I can’t believe you’re here.”

“You went looking for me?” Credence asks.

“I always go looking for you,” Percival says. “I mean, I know sometimes you just leave, but I always hope that —”

He stops and shakes his head, then tucks his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t look Credence in the eye.

“Anyway, I remembered how you liked the ceiling at, uhm, Le Ciel and I know Central Park’s got the best views and this is my favorite bridge,” Percival says.

“You have a favorite bridge?” Credence asks.

Percival smiles, though his eyebrows say he’s still quite upset. “Don’t you?”

Credence tries and fails to smile. Percival leans against the side of stone edge of the bridge. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” Percival says. “I know I got angry with you and then I just — I just left and I shouldn’t have done that. I rarely get to see you anyway and I went and ruined it.”

“No,” Credence says, when it’s clear that Percival will continue unless stopped. “You didn’t.”

Percival opens and closes his mouth like a fish.

“I was angry too,” Credence says. “I’m still angry. You didn’t ruin things, I did.”

“No, you didn’t!” Percival says. He grabs at Credence’s arm suddenly, then pulls back when Credence flinches away.

“You couldn’t ever ruin anything,” Percival says.

Credence turns and looks out over the pond under the bridge. He looks out at the park, at the buildings that can be seen at the very edges. How many of the buildings will he try to raze to the ground in another twenty years or so? How many could he destroy if he started now?

He looks at Percival and thinks about how young he is now, about the age that Chastity was when Credence killed her for the sin of choosing Mary Lou over him. She always had. But is that a capital crime? Should someone like Credence Barebone really be deciding who lives and who dies? His pride is so easily wounded; his anger, so easily pricked; his heart, so easily turned.

“You hardly know me, Percival.”

Percival shoulders sag. His mouth falls into a desolate little frown. His whole forehead contorts with confusion and sadness. He looks as if he might cry.

“But I love you,” Percival says.

Credence sighs, as silently as he can. It’s probably still evident in the movement of his shoulders. Percival watches him very carefully.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Please,” Percival says, “come home with me.”

“Alright,” Credence says.

This time he lets Percival take his arm, even though it makes him feel tense all over. His heart feels like a brick shoved between his teeth. He has felt worse before and survived. Percival takes them from Central Park to his tenement building in the blink of an eye.

“Could you find someone with magic?” Credence asked.

“Yes,” Percival says. “There are many ways. It usually requires enchanting a map of some kind, though you can also use a compass.”

“How?” Credence asks.

Percival looks at him and in the light of his little room there are dark circles under his eyes. He has been crying, though Credence doesn’t think he cried on the bridge. Credence has the urge to wipe Percival’s face with the cuff of his shirt, to find something cool to place on the bruises beneath Percival’s eyes.

“It can wait until morning,” he says, instead.

“Alright,” Percival says. “You can have the bed tonight.”

Credence frowns, nothing more than the smallest movement at the corners of his mouth.

“If you’re going to sleep on the floor again,” he says, “then I’m joining you.”

“Alright,” Percival says. “If you don’t mind it, I can sleep in the bed.”

He looks uncertain still, but they both changes into pajamas. Credence has a slice of toast to quiet his empty stomach, then he brushes his teeth in the sink.

They both fit into the small bed with their backs turned to one another, laying on their sides. It’s how they’ve been falling asleep for more than week now. More often than not, Credence wakes up with Percival’s arm thrown over him and his open mouth drooling on the collar of his pajamas. But that’s not so surprising, all things considered. Besides, these are Percival’s pajamas. He can drool on them if he wants.

But now the warmth of Percival’s body against his back sends an itch crawling up and down Credence’s spine.

He despises it.

With a huff, he turns over and puts his arm around Percival. Credence feels Percival startle so hard it shakes the bed. He goes stiff under Credence’s touch.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, very softly. He starts to pull away, but Percival takes him by the wrist.

“It’s fine,” Percival says.

Credence allows a little bit of space between them, but there’s not much space on the bed. His breathing falls into step with Percival’s.

“Thank you,” Percival says, and Credence wonders what in all of God’s creation he has to thank Credence for.

In the morning, Credence wakes before dawn and unwinds his body from Percival’s. The floor is cold under his feet. He borrows Percival’s slippers, which fall short of his heels by an inch.

Percival rubs the sleep out of his eyes and tries to smooth his hair into shape with his hands.

“Good morning,” he says, taking back his slippers.

Credence cooks breakfast.

“Who are you looking for?” Percival asks.

“Myself,” Credence says.

“That’s rather philosophical,” Percival says.

Credence looks at him over eggs and toast.

“But easy,” Percival says. “Just a name should be sufficient, really, names are very important.”

“Is there anything else?” Credence asks. “Something other than a name.”

Percival blinks.

“But you know your name,” he says.

“I wasn’t named Credence when I was born,” he says, at least he doesn’t think he was. He has no idea.

“Oh,” Percival says.

“There’s a technique,” he starts to say, “I mean, at the academy they said it’s usually meant to find remains, but blood or hair —”

“How much?” Credence asks.

“Very little,” Percival says. “We can start tonight.”

Credence has never waited for anything as anxiously as he does Percival’s return that day. By the time the sun sets, he feels like his heart will burst out of his chest for the way it’s been pounding. He has four little semi-circles pressed into the palms of hands from clenching his fists so hard.

“Dinner can wait,” Percival says. “I bought maps.”

On the maps that Percival spreads across the table and the floor, when the table runs out of room, Credence reads names for blocks and neighborhoods that he’s never heard of or seen: a park called Frog’s Toe and a 600th block where Credence knows the street numbers end at 500.

The shoreline seems to waver on paper like the lapping tide.

Percival murmurs foreign words over the paper and moves his wand very deliberately.

Only after Credence has pressed a bloody thumbprint to five different maps of New York City does he say, “You rarely use your wand.”

Percival raises one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. “You never use yours.”

“I don’t have a wand,” Credence says.

Credence’s blood crawls up the length of the paper and drips through the printed streets. He watches, fascinated as it meanders around Lower Manhattan and then diverges.

One red-brown drop coalesces on the corner of Percival’s apartment. The other settles off of Bayard Street.

“That’s so close,” Percival says. “Wow.”

Credence wonders again whether any of the women he walked past this week was his mother.

“It’s late,” he says, realizing that it’s no hour to go barge in on a woman and her young child.

“This spell isn’t permanent,” Percival says. “But it’ll last at least a day. Eventually the blood degrades.”

Credence nods and stares at the two drops of his blood.

Percival folds up all the maps and hands them over to Credece in one thick stack.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“We should go out and celebrate,” Percival offers.

He looks tired and wane, but he smiles. Over a very late dinner, Credence watches him shut his eyes tight and rub at his temple with one hand.

“Percival,” he says, “I really can’t thank you enough.”

Percival shrugs his shoulders.

“Consider it payback,” he says, “for that time you kept a wampus cat from eating me.”

Percival rolls his eyes and waves his hand in a small circle in the air. “Or the time you found me in the woods as a baby.”

“You remember that?” Credence asks.

“Or for whatever it is I’m going to do to you in the future,” Percival continues, as though he doesn’t hear. Then he sets his hand down on the table.

“Of course I remember that,” he says. “You remember it.”

“You weren’t even old enough to talk,” Credence says.

Percival just shrugs his shoulders.

Credence can barely sleep that night. He feels himself toss and turn, his body fitting against Percival’s about as well as a butcher’s knife fits against a feather pillow. But Percival took something before bed that has him sleeping through Credence’s fitfulness.

He burns the toast in the morning, but Percival eats it anyway.

“Are you going to find yourself today?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. His hands won’t stop shaking.

“Good luck,” Percival says.

Credence takes all the maps with him when he goes, stuffing them into any pocket that will fit. After dawn, the little dot on Bayard begins to move. Credence walks to Canal and then heads east. As he gets closer to Bayard, so do both drops of his blood. Credence folds up the map and starts looking at the faces around him. There are men lingering at every street corner and signs hung on doors in Chinese. People look at him here, where Credence is used to being invisible and beneath notice.

There is only one woman on the sidewalk and she carries two armfuls of groceries. None of the men standing around takes a single step to help her.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Credence says.

The woman lifts her face and looks at him. She has a very square face, he thinks, with a few freckles. Her eyes are dark above her high cheekbones. She startles back a step from Credence and says nothing.

“Could I help you carry that?” Credence asks. His voice wavers slightly. He swallows.

“你識唔識講廣東話呀?” the woman says.

Credence looks down at his feet.

“You don’t,” she says. “But you’re not…”

She looks across the street at a pair of white men standing in a doorway who stare at Credence when he glances at them. They stand out here, on streets crowded with signs written in Chinese. Credence realizes that he must stand out. He swallows an apology.

“Why do you want to help me?” she asks.

Something about her accent, the shape of her words and her sharpness, makes Credence’s stomach tie into knots.

While Credence tries to think of what to say, the woman coughs slightly but clenches her jaw through it.

“I think we went to the same school,” Credence says.

The woman’s dark eyebrows draw together over her eyes. Credence likes the shape of her eyes and how dark they are, as dark as her hair.

“Ilvermorny,” Credence tries.

The woman nods.

“Fine,” she says, “help then.”

Credence has never been so happy to carry groceries in his life. The woman leads him into a building and down a flight of stairs. On her back, a small hand clutches the long braid of her hair. All Credence can see of the child is that tiny hand.

The basement room she leads him to is half the size of Percival’s small apartment. Credence sets the groceries on a small table and things begin to float out of the packages. He watches leafy greens, mushrooms, strange roots, animal feet moving through the air and tucking themselves away in cabinets and tins.

The woman takes the child off her back.

“A boy?” Credence asks.

The baby holds onto her hair even as she shifts him into her arms. She murmurs to him in a language Credence doesn’t know.

“Yes,” she says, after a long pause.

She laughs without really opening her mouth.

“You,” she says, “have a nose just like his father.”

She smiles without showing her teeth.

“We were married. My son is not a bastard like they say when my back is turned,” she says. “But he died last year. And here you are, a little boy with his nose, reminding me of Ilvermorny.”

She looks at Credence for a long moment, then at the boy in her arms. There’s water boiling in a glass kettle behind her. Credence holds onto nothing so hard the bones in his hands ache.

“Dressed all in black, like heaven before dawn, with a flower,” she says. “And offering to help me. It’s a miracle.”

Credence’s knees turn into water. He’s shaking. His heart is trying to jump out of his chest.

“I need to go,” he says.

“I’m making tea,” she says. “Stay for tea.”

But he’s already gone. He didn’t even ask her name — or his own.

He pats himself down for all his folded up maps, but they’re gone too. Credence stands alone in a dark room. Everything around him is quiet, not even city quiet: silent. His eyes slowly adjust until he can make out the shapes of furniture. There’s an open cabinet beside a fireplace. There are a lot of bookshelves, but he’s not in any part of the Graves estate that he remembers.

Where is he now?

He steps through the dark carefully, looking for any light and listening for any sound. Credence finds many doors, both open and shut. He pushes gently at the one he finds ajar.

“Percival?” he asks. There is a man sitting on a bed, hunched over himself. He looks up.

“Credence,” he says. “Morrigan’s wand, is it really you?”

The gas lamps on the walls illuminate and Credence sees that Percival has been sitting on his bed fully dressed in the dark. There’s a cut-glass bottle with the dregs of an amber liquor at the bottom sitting on the dresser.

“I met my mother,” Credence says.

“What?” Percival asks.

He tries to stand, but sways and then falls back down.

“Did she hurt you?” Percival asks, when Credence approaches him.

“No, my real mother,” Credence says. “The woman who hurt me was never my mother.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Percival says, slurring his words.

“What year is it?” Credence asks. “Maybe I could still find her. I didn’t mean to leave.”

“I looked for you,” Percival says. “On Bayard Street, until this… This… I had to wait until I had a free day, I think, but you were gone.”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Credence says. “I wish I could go back.”

“Me too,” Percival says. Then he shudders and Credence watches tears spill out of his eyes. He sniffs and rubs his nose.

“Percival?” Credence asks.

“Tell me about… tell me about your mama,” Percival says.

Percival reaches out and misses Credence’s shoulder by a few inches.

“Was she pretty like you?” Percival asks. “I bet she was beautiful and good and kind.”

Mary Lou abhorred drinking and yanked Credence out of the way of men in the streets who smelled like Percival does now. It makes Credence’s stomach roil, that smell.

“What year is it?” Credence asks.

“I don’t know,” Percival says. “I’m… I’m…”

“Intoxicated,” Credence suggests.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Please tell me about your mama.”

“She said I had my father’s nose,” Credence says. “And that they were married, but I think that my father died before I was born.”

“I wish mine had,” Percival muttered. “No, that’s… that’s awful, I don’t wish anyone was dead. I wish your papa wasn’t dead.”

“I wish I knew what had happened,” Credence says. “Do you — are you finished with your training?”

“Yes,” Percival says, then starts weeping. “But I don’t wanna… I don’t.”

“My mother went to Ilvermorny,” Credence says.

“Really?” Percival aks. “Did I know her?”

“I don’t know,” Credence says. “I didn’t get her name.”

“You should…” Percival stops and sighs.

He lurches to one side and Credence thinks he’s going to fall off the bed. He grabs Percival by the shoulders. But Percival reaches out and a drawer slides open on his bedside table. Then it keeps on sliding until it drops to the floor with a clunk.

“Shit,” Percival says.

“There’s a journal in there,” he says. “Credence, you oughta... You oughta write it all down, everything you remember about your mama and whatever she told you.”

Credence looks at him, his red eyes and his wet cheeks. He hasn’t shaved, Credence realizes, but he’s used to seeing Percival Graves with some stubble. Only, he isn’t. He’s used to seeing Percival Graves as a child, a young man. This man is some middle point between the two Percival Graveses that Credence remembers.

“I think you should lie down,” Credence tells him, and Percival slumps down onto the bed with a sigh.

He draws his legs up and sets his shoes on the bedspread. Credence sees mud on the toes and heels, even the spats meant to protect the leather. He frowns.

When Credence puts a hand on the top of Percival’s shoe, he shifts his feet away and drags dirt across the bedspread in doing so.

“It’s late,” Credence says.

“I know that,” Percival says.

“I’ll write down everything,” Credence says, “if you get out of those clothes and dress for bed.”

Percival meets his eyes for a moment then turns onto his side. His shoulders shake for a moment, then again. Credence doesn’t know if Percival is crying again or if he’s going to be sick.

“Percival,” he says.

Credence gets to his feet and picks up the fallen drawer. The journal is bound in ribbon that falls open at Credence’s touch. There’s a collection of other papers, as well as pens and nibs and ink. Credence picks up a simple pencil instead, feeling uncertain about the variety of inks. He sets the journal and pencil aside so he can put the drawer back in place.

“I’m doing it,” Credence says, as though Percival is a child. Though he was never so sullen and weepy then, except maybe as an infant. Credence considers telling him that. Instead he leans against his broad back and finds a blank page.

There are entries in ink labeled with dates. The most recent marks the year as 1906.

Credence writes beside a messy, spotted entry in black ink. He couldn’t hope to read Percival’s handwriting. His own seems childish and simple. He writes down everything that he remembers — the address of her building, the shape of her face and her eyes, that she was an Ilvermorny student, she spoke another language, she was married, her husband had died a year earlier, he looked a bit like Credence. So did she, he realizes.

She was a witch.

He writes it all down, then sets the journal beside the nearly empty glass bottle.

“Have you fallen asleep?” Credence asks.

“No,” Percival says. He sounds like he’s very far away, though he’s close enough for Credence to turn and touch his shoulder.

“I wrote everything down,” he says.

“Good,” Percival says. “That’s good. I don’t… but maybe… I don’t know, Credence, but thank you.”

Credence waits a moment, swallowing back his irritation at Percival’s behavior.

“Has something happened?” he asks.

Percival doesn’t answer.

Credence frowns. “You can’t sleep in those clothes.”

When there’s no answer, Credence grabs him by the shoulder. Percival refuses to be moved. When Credence leans over him he sees Percival glance at them and them look away. He has been crying.

“Percival,” he says.

He doesn’t mean to do anything, really. What he truly wants is for Percival to tell him what’s happened. He wants to know that this isn’t usual — drinking in the dark and going to bed in his coat and shoes. He wants the bedspread not to be ruined. He wants Percival to not suffer like this.

What actually happens is that Credence clutches the sleeve of Percival’s long coat with one hand and then it disappears.

Everything from Percival’s collar and tie down to his filthy spats disappears.

“What in the —” Percival says, with the slowness of intoxication.

Credence looks at his hand on Percival’s bare arm for a moment before he yanks it away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean. I didn’t know I could even —”

He doesn’t even know what he’s done. He’s on his feet and staggering backwards away from the bed when Percival rolls onto his back.

At first, it sounds like he’s sobbing and his whole chest shakes. Credence can see every rib and muscle.

But, no, Percival is _laughing_. And he only laughs harder when he tries to summon one of his heavy, dark blue pajamas to him and it softly collides with his face instead of his hand. The whole garment is one long night dress and difficult enough to get into under normal circumstances. So Credence helps him, apologizing the whole time.

“I can’t believe I’m laughing,” Percival says. “I don’t deserve to be happy, but you always make me… You make me feel, Credence.”

Credence pats at Percival’s face with his sleeve, because it’s damp. Percival sighs and leans toward him.

“I’ve done something,” he says. “Something terrible.”

“What?” Credence says.

“I can’t,” Percival says. “You’ll despise me.”

He presses his face against Credence’s shoulder and when he starts to shake again Credence doubts it’s with laughter.

“You already despise me,” he says.

“Percival,” Credence says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You do,” Percival says. “I love you and you hate me.”

Credence feels sharp with anger.

“Then what does it matter what you’ve done,” he says. “I think you ought to tell me, just to have it out. Otherwise, you might carry it around until it kills you. That’s what secrets do.”

For a while, all Percival does is cry. Credence puts his arms around him and rubs a hand against the fabric on his back. Truly, he thinks, the actions of someone who hates a man.

Then Percival goes quiet for a minute or an hour.

“I killed a woman,” he says. He draws back from Credence, pulling away from his touch.

“I was… It was a senior auror and me in the field. She killed her husband, but it was bloody and there was magic. Magic was involved, I mean. And children, she had two children. I don’t, I asked what became of them but they won’t tell me. I’ve been sent home. They’re looking at my wand and hers.”

Credence watches Percival wipe at his face with his hands. His eyes and nose are very red.

“She backed herself… She got herself someplace she couldn’t apparate out of,” Percival says. “She was no dueler, but she was… I don’t know. I don’t. She was throwing Cruciatus and just hoping one would hit. She got me a little, but she got Thomas directly when she was trying to cover me.”

Credence listens without asking any questions, because Percival’s telling matters more than his understanding.

“I just wanted to stop her,” Percival says. “But now those kids… They already saw their mama kill their papa and now… She didn’t deserve that.”

Credence swallows the acid at the back of his throat.

“No one deserves to die,” he says.

“I knew you would,” Percival says. He reaches up and his hand brushes Credence’s cheek.

“You’re so good,” Percival says.

“I killed the woman who hurt me,” Credence says. “My Ma.”

Percival blinks.

“And my sister,” Credence says.

“And there was a man before that,” he says. “I don’t know if there were others.”

Sometimes he saw a house blown down like the walls of Jericho. He used to find brick dust in his shoes when he woke up in the space beneath the stairs where he slept.

“I don’t believe you,” Percival says.

“Then you think I’m lying?” Credence asks.

“No,” Percival says.

He reaches out and touches Credence’s arms like he doesn’t expect him to be real and has to keep checking.

“No, I believe you,” Percival says.

“But she hurt you,” he says.

He leans in very close, so that Credence can smell the sweat and alcohol on him. He refuses to lean away even though he wants to.

“She hurt you,” Percival says.

From the distance of time, Credence remembers his fear. He remembers his anger. Mostly, he remembers fear.

“I had,” Credence says. “I will have two sisters, but one isn’t, she had a family, Percival.”

“Did they…” Percival doesn’t finish his question.

“No,” Credence says. “She talked about her brothers and sisters, I don’t think she could understand why she came to live with us, but her pa drank even though it was illegal and immoral.”

“It’s not illegal to drink,” Percival says.

“It’s going to be,” Credence says. “Alcohol is going to be banned because it destroys good men and family life.”

Percival looks at him for a moment and then sighs.

“Tell me about your sister,” Percival says.

“Her real ma couldn’t afford to feed and clothe twelve children,” Credence says. “So Modesty came to us. It wasn’t fair. Her ma just wanted her to be safe.”

Percival leans in close enough to press his cheek to Credence’s cheek.

“You kept her safe,” he says. “Didn’t you, Credence?”

“No,” he says.

“You did,” Percival says with all the conviction of liquor.

“You did what you had to do,” Percival explains. “You didn’t want anyone to get hurt and maybe you were scared. I was scared and I thought if I died there I’d never see you again, but if I killed this woman, I wouldn’t deserve to.”

He holds onto Credence and Credence finds he’s holding on as well. His breath shivers out of him.

“I’m not a good man, I think,” Percival says. “I wanted to be, because you were always good to me and then you said… I wanted to be better than that.”

Credence’s jaw trembles and the tremor keeps him silent. When he blinks, tears well up and run down his face. He could be crying for Modesty’s sake, though she hasn’t even been born yet. He could be crying for Percival. But he is a selfish and wretched creature; he cries only for himself.

“Do you think,” Credence starts to ask. His voice cracks with a whine and he closes his mouth.

“No,” Percival says. “It doesn’t matter.”

They go quiet for a very, very long time. Credence moves his hand against Percival’s back, up and down and up again.

He doesn’t even notice that Percival has fallen asleep until he starts to get hungry. Then it feels just like they’re back at the Graves estate again. Credence eases Percival back against the bed. His face looks blotchy from drink or sorrow. Still, he has all the handsomeness that will draw Credence in like a moth to flame.

He pulls back the covers as best he can and tucks them under Percival at the hips and shoulders. Then he goes about in the dark taking care of things as he always has. The cut-glass bottle of alcohol likely came from the open cabinet Credence saw when he first arrived here. The kitchen is behind one of the closed doors. Credence pours a glass of water and leaves it in place on the bed stand beside the journal.

Credence’s fingers touch the leather cover. He opens it. He picks up the pencil again.

He draws a firm line beneath all he wrote about his mother.

“You are a good man,” he writes. “Stay that way.”

He signs it.

Then he gets up and walks out the door. He is surprised to find the Graves manor’s halls still present. He heads for the kitchen. Percival will wake up looking for that glass of water, but he’ll likely want something to eat. Credence himself feels the first needles of hunger in his stomach.

He opens the door and smells smoke. When he goes to it, he feels the heels of his shoes sink into mud. He blinks and the sky is grey with dawn, no, with the smoke. His eyes water.

Credence doesn’t know what he’s seeing at first, the curls of barbed wire look like vines climbing up wooden post fences. He’s never been in such an open, natural space. But the air is dirty with ash. His nose starts to close up.

An explosion startles him. He jumps. His shoes stay in the mud.

The hill in the distance moves, revealing itself to be a tank.

Something screams through the air. It explodes even closer to Credence than the last. He drops. He falls. He slides down the ground backwards, certain he’s about to land head first into Hell.

“Fuck,” Percival says.

Credence opens his eyes, his arms braced around his head. A broken arm is nothing compared to the dizzy vomiting of a head injury.

Percival looks at him with such horror that Credence expects to find his arm bone sticking out where his elbow ought to be. He pats himself down. He’s filthy with mud, but unhurt by the fall.

“You can’t be here,” Percival says.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, tears in his eyes from the smoke.

“I didn’t choose to be here,” he insists, angrily.

“No one would choose to be here,” Percival says.

“Didn’t you volunteer, Perce?” someone mutters. They don’t seem to notice Credence at all.

“These are No-Majs,” Percival says.

“What?” Credence asks.

Percival leans in close, presses Credence up against sandbags and dirt. The trench — this is a _trench_ and this is _The War_ — has an inch of water standing above the mud. Credence’s pants and socks soak it up. Percival’s breath has a sweet smell that turns Credence’s stomach with its familiarity.

“These soldiers don’t have magic,” Percival says. He holds Credence by the lapels of his jacket. The black drains out of the fabric, leaving only drab and greenish brown. Boots appear on his feet; his socks dry out. Percival plucks the pin off his chest and stuffs it into a buttoned pocket.

“You can’t be here,” Percival repeats. “Please, go.”

He gives Credence space and Credence looks down at himself. When he was young and the War was just beginning, he dreamt of it. He wanted to be a soldier, because being a soldier would take him further than being a son. He touches the stripes on his arm and feels dizzy with fear.

An explosion rattles the earth that Credence leans against.

“I can’t control it,” Credence tells him.

“Well,” Percival says. “Try.”

Credence frowns.

“Look,” Percival says. “I don’t want you here. Is that enough? Of all the places…”

His voice breaks suddenly and he stops. He covers his mouth with his fist.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Always the volunteers,” the same voice says. Credence looks, finally, and sees a man laying in a puddle. He rests his head on his arm and looks up at the smoke-clotted sky. Credence looks around, but there is little to see here that he would want to see.

A part of him wanted to go to war, precisely because he thought he could die there. He could die somewhere in Europe and his bones would never come back to Mary Lou or New York City.

“You volunteered?” Credence asks Percival. He steps over the standing water carefully and moves to Percival’s side.

“Yeah,” Percival says, very quietly. “We’re not… People like you and me, we aren’t supposed to fight. This is for… the rest of them. This is their fight.”

“Who?” Credence asks.

“You know,” Percival says.

Little by little, Percival sinks lower toward the bottom of the trench.

“I hate that you’re here,” Percival says.

Credence doesn’t know what to say to that. Does Percival mean that he hates being here too? Does he wish that Credence would just disappear?

He really didn’t know anything about war back when he had wanted to go. And then the war had been over. He’d never been old enough to join. He just read about it in the papers, usually after Ma was done and he was using the pages to get the stove lit. Sometimes he would read the front pages when he was supposed to be handing out pamphlets. People usually didn’t notice him.

Credence’s body flinches with every explosion he hears. The screaming of mortar shells hurts his ears, like a knife cutting into his brain. The smoke stings his eyes. He smells nothing but the sweetness of rot and starvation.

People are dying here, like Credence had wanted to. But they probably love their mothers. Percival does.

Credence doesn’t want him to die here. He has magic. He’s a _witch_. But he’s starving, even Credence can tell. He puts a hand against Percival’s shoulder and does not look at him. Percival has his face turned away from Credence anyway.

“You’re going to survive this,” Credence says.

The future where Credence dies and Percival Graves betrays him, the future that Credence came from, feels as unsteady as mud. It’s not exploded; at least, Credence doesn’t think it is. But he can’t see it through the haze of smoke.

He’s not sure where he’s going anymore. Is he also alive somewhere in New York City wishing he could be dying in Europe?

Credence shuts his eyes and leans his head down until his temple rests against his hand which rests against Percival’s arm.

“If there’s nothing for me to do here,” he thinks, “let me go. I want to be somewhere I can help Percival live through this.”

And he accepts that when Percival does, it may kill him.

The screams of shells turns into the crack of bullets striking stone. Credence feels what might be brick under his palm instead of Percival’s uniform. He hears shouting from all sides. When he dares to open his eyes, he finds he’s pressed into the corner of a building that simply isn’t there anymore. Fallen blocks of shattered, grey stone pile all around him. Trees stripped by the coming winter or by gun fire stand out at the edge of the horizon.

Every single, skeletal tree is on fire. There is so much fire and so much smoke that Credence cannot tell if it is day or night.

This is Hell, he thinks. But he is not afraid.

Or, at least, he is not afraid for himself.

Credence moves so that he can look in the other direction, peeking around the edge of the rubble like a sneaking child. His eyes water from smoke, but he cannot see anything but the shape of men. He cannot distinguish one from another.

“Advance!” he hears shouted, and his heart clogs his throat.

When Credence tries to stand, he hears a crack and a bullet shatters against the stone beside his head. Fragments of stone vanish into pitch black smoke. The uniform wrapping Credence’s body in muddy brown begins to darken with shades of charcoal.

When he moves, its with the swiftness and certainty of a screaming mortar.

He has done this before, he realizes. He digs into the earth with huge and invisible claws. Clods of dirt fly.

“Bloody fucking hell!” a man says, dark haired and young.

The seething thing under Credence’s uniform wants to sink its teeth in until someone’s blood runs black as ink. Maybe his own.

“Credence,” Percival says. He is thinner. He has too much hair on his face. He has the scar that Credence remembers — those spots of red, a permanent mark of his own blood.

“This is Credence?” the man — a stranger, a _foreigner_ — asks.

The whites of Percival’s eyes show all around the disk of is iris. His eyes look as precise as bullet holes, Credence thinks. All around them: Smoke and death and Hell itself. Fire and brimstone and magic, maybe?

“You’re here,” Percival says. “Of course you’re here.”

Definitely magic, Credence decides.

“Who are we fighting?” Credence asks.

“Credence,” Percival says. He turns and shouts another order.

“You don’t know?” the stranger says. “Germans. Trying to break the line up past the… well, where the trees are… you see.”

Credence nods.

“You don’t have a gun,” the man says.

“I don’t need one,” Credence says, thinking about the feeling of bending lamp posts with his hands and shattering wooden beams with his screams and throwing an automobile down the street like a pebble.

“Do you?” he asks.

A fine line appears between the man’s brows. He is not as handsome as Percival, but the color of his eyes and the shape of his face remind Credence of someone. He doesn’t know who. This stranger looks cruel in all the places where the memory was kind. That makes no sense, he tells himself.

“Do you need help?” Credence asks, catching up with Percival. Ash is falling out of his sleeves. The other men, at least most of them, have helmets. They have beards where Credence barely has stubble.

“What do you think?” Percival asks, tired and angry and hopeless all at once. It makes Credence’s skin begin to flake off his bones. At least that’s how it feels. Is he less of himself? Or something more?

Will he become one with the smoke? Will he explode like a mortar shell? If he dies will he somehow save the version of himself who is sitting in Mary Lou Barebone’s home across the Atlantic wishing he could be dying in Europe?

“I always need you,” Percival says.

Or maybe he says, “I always need your help.”

But Credence doesn’t hear. He lets himself be eaten up by burnt splinters and coal-black teeth.

Bullets crack. Shells scream. Credence, the thing that he becomes, roars. The soil gives under his violence, softer than flesh and wet with rain. He picks up the fire and throws it ahead of him in sparks. He lets it become a part of the darkness, flares of orange around his body. He still has his body.

He is wearing a uniform pretending to be a soldier. He has worn a body all his life, hasn’t he, and pretended to be a man. Is that right?

Credence doesn’t know and he has yet to get any answers from Percival Graves. His mother loved him and Credence wasn’t brave enough to stay with her. She probably died. He couldn’t find himself. He probably never will.

He doesn’t know if he’s making any difference in Percival. He probably isn’t. He probably won’t.

I am dead, Credence roars. I am dead and I am dying and I am death.

His hands haven’t hurt in months, or whatever amount of time he’s spent watching Percival grow and age now. But he is still in pain. Bones crack. Men scream. He tastes blood that turns into ash when his darkness touches it.

Credence doesn’t understand the language these men speak.

He couldn’t understand the words his own mother spoke to him. He cannot understand what is happening to him or what has happened to him. Hell is an anger inside him that burns and burns and consumes everything.

There’s nothing inside him but black ash across a battlefield of broken bones and branches.

Credence shoots up toward the sky, into the clouds made of smoke. He falls like a bird, with his talons out, and tears apart everything he touches. He races like a cat with six legs, like a horse with its tail on fire, like a bolt of lightning down the metal body of an unfinished building.

Somewhere below him, Credence knows Percival Graves can see him.

“Do you know what I am?” he wants to scream. Because he doesn’t.

He wants Percival Graves to see him and to be not afraid.

When Credence stops shaking himself to pieces and pulls the darkness back into his flesh and bones, he’s standing outside of a church. The air is still cold. The grass under his boots has been ground into mud. He doesn’t know where he is — he hasn’t known for days now. He doesn’t know if he has once again moved forward in time or how far he may have gone. All mud looks like the same mud.

He knows nothing.

He still doesn’t know what it is that squirms and thrashes beneath his skin every time he’s upset. He sees other soldiers, eventually, and then men and women all in white.

One of them has a wand? Credence stops and rubs his eyes. His hand comes back wet.

Wiping his hand on his muddy uniform, Credence decides to follow the possible witch in white. She goes into the church that Credence just walked away from. Witches shouldn’t even be able to enter churches, he thinks. But she does.

He looks at her clothing, no different from the men’s. He clenches a fist around his muddy shirt.

“I need to change,” he tells the uniform that Percival transformed for him.

“Change,” he hisses. “Damn you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and realizes that he is very tired now, and no less angry. If he has magic, it could at least do this little for him. It did once before, didn’t it? He can change things just by wishing.

When Credence opens his eyes he’s dressed like a witch or a nurse. No one even looks at him when he steps out into the open nave.

All the men and women in white here hold wands in their hands, moving them carefully over the men laid on makeshift beds clearly transformed from pews.

Credence looks at every face, searching. He smells blood and rot, the harsh smells of medicines and other things. Something hard and sour presses at the back of his throat. Bandages obscure some faces while the rictus of pain changes the shape of others into something barely human. Any of these men — sleeping, groaning, weeping — could be Percival Graves.

With a certain, bubbling horror, Credence thinks about the blackened and broken bodies he left in a muddy field. Any of those men could have been Percival Graves. They are no different. Aren’t they?

Weren’t they?

In uniforms and bandages, any soldier here could be Percival Graves.

But they’re not.

Any body Credence tore into and threw down into the mud could have been Percival Graves.

But they weren’t.

Credence finds him at the end of a row, smelling like cooked meat with his whole leg bared and bandaged. The sheet has been pulled away and Credence can see the pink and gold of fluids seeping through the bandages.

Credence swallows down the sickness in his mouth. He tries not to breathe through his nose.

“Percival,” he says. “Are you awake?”

Brown eyes open at least part way and Percival turns his head slightly toward Credence.

“Are you a healer?” Percival asks.

Credence breathes out suddenly. The taste in the air fills his mouth, his lungs, and makes his stomach churn. But he cannot stop taking deep and stuttered breaths.

“Percival,” he says.

“You’re dressed like a healer,” Percival says. His pupils are so dark and wide.

“They’ve sent me the prettiest healer on the front,” he says.

Credence’s jaw trembles and he clenches it shut. That makes him breathe through his nose and it’s awful.

“The prettiest healer in the whole wide world,” Percival says. He is not particularly quiet. Credence looks around at the other healers, the witch doctors in white robes and dresses, the other men in beds as meager as Percival’s.

“Are you alright?” Credence asks. “How do you feel?”

“I can’t feel a damn thing,” Percival says.

His chapped, split lips slope into a soft smile. His eyes waver, but he never turns his face away from Credence. He reaches out with a bare hand and grabs the white of Credence’s transformed clothing.

He’s injured. He smells unwell, sick and _wrong_. He’s delirious, probably drugged.

“Give me your wand,” Credence says.

“What?” Percival says. “No!”

His forehead wrinkles up and his dry mouth falls into a frown. His face has half a beard. He looks sallow. Credence puts his hand over Percival’s and finds the skin clammy.

“I can’t use it,” Credence reassures him. But every other healer around them has a wand. He’s going to be obvious.

“I’ve already tried, you’re not going to have a problem with this years from now,” Credence says.

“But it’s my wand,” Percival says. “It’s one of a kind.”

“Just give it to me in case someone walks past,” Credence says. They’re out in the open. Credence can’t stop looking around.

“Alright,” Percival says. “But it’s only because you’re… you’re so pretty. I wouldn’t let just anybody. I wouldn’t let nobody.”

He takes his hand away from Credence’s clothes and reaches under the white sheet pulled over most of him. He draws out his wand, but it is not the wand that Credence remembers. It has a silver handle, yes, but it’s smooth and capped with a gold ball at the very base. The wood is dark and smooth, though, it feels warm in Credence’s hand.

“Demanding a man’s own wand,” Percival says. “Why don’t you use your own?”

“You know I don’t have one,” Credence says.

“Oh,” Percival says. “Oh no.”

Tears well up in his eyes and Credence kneels down beside the bed. He touches Percival’s face. Percival touches his. Why is he doing this? No other healer is behaving like this. They all stand over their patients to work.

Credence needs to pull away.

“It’s fine,” Credence says. “I can’t use it.”

He holds it in his right hand and reaches out with his left. He holds his hand out over Percival’s bandaged leg. His whole arm shakes.

“What happened?” Credence asks.

“Caught on fire,” Percival says.

Credence’s eyes go wide.

“I’m fine, obviously,” he says.

“Oh,” he adds. “You’ve been gone for a while, haven’t you? This must be confusing. Last time I saw you, it was just Theseus and me and all the No-Maj soldiers. But now it’s, well, our kind always gets caught up in these things.”

“Our kind?” Credence asks.

“Wizards, obviously, like you and me,” Percival says. “And Theseus.”

Percival sighs.

Credence tries to remember every Psalm he knows on sickness and affliction. He thinks about Percival’s bare legs from when he was a boy in short pants, with skinned knees and freckles. He thinks about sharing a bed with Percival, their legs tangled in nightgowns and bedsheets.

“Be made whole,” he thinks. “Please, please, be made whole. Be healed.”

It’s not working.

“Anyway,” Percival says. “This group of absolute lunatics went and got dragons involved, but really the No-Majs have all manner of things. Who even needs dragons anymore? It’s frankly terrifying.”

“Yes,” Credence says, looking at the bandages. “I have some idea.”

“You didn’t see the worst of it,” Percival tells him.

Was Credence the worst of it? Or are there worse things than Credence in the world?

“You’re so pretty,” Percival says. “I just can’t stop looking at you. That face… I’m the luckiest wizard in the world, cause I’ve got to see that face my whole life.”

“Percival,” Credence says.

It still isn’t working.

“Oh, I told… I told my friend Theseus about you,” Percival says.

Credence doesn’t say anything.

“See, at first, I tried to tell him that you were my patronus,” Percival says. “Which is, I mean, I was trying to make a joke of it, you know? Because of what that means.”

Credence doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know what a patronus even is and at the moment it doesn’t matter. He just wants this to work. He feels close to cursing. He could change his black clothes into a white robe, but he can’t do this?

Of course he can’t. Credence has never been good at anything in his life, certainly not when it really mattered.

He’s starting to get used to the smell, but it’s not improving.

“But he was too clever for me, that Theseus Scamander,” Percival says. “If he was even half as pretty as you, I think I’d fall in love. But my heart belongs to only one man, even if he doesn’t want it.”

Percival goes on and on. Credence can’t stand to look at him, to listen to him. He watches the bandages grow less and less white.

He wasted it, Credence thinks. What little magic he could do, he wasted on _clothing_.

The church around them seems to fall away. Credence feels the whole world narrow down to the wand in his hand and the bandages on Percival’s leg. Not only his arm, but his whole body shakes like an autumn leaf.

“Percival,” he says. “It’s not working.”

“That’s fine,” Percival says. “I know you’re not really a healer, Credence.”

“And,” he continues, “healing magic is some of the hardest magic in the world. I’ll heal on my own. It’s only a little bit of dragon breath.”

Credence’s lips tremble and he cannot control the way his face moves. Tears run down his cheeks.

“I’m just happy to see you,” Percival says. “I love you terribly.”

After a moment, “May I have my wand back?”

Credence surrenders it. Percival calls him pretty once more, while Credence sniffs loudly to keep the mucus clogging his nose from running down his face. He can’t smell anything now.

Credence puts his hands on the bed and Percival reaches out and puts his damp palm over the back of Credence’s hand. He has thick, dark hair up to the ends of his wrists and even creeping slightly onto the back of his hand. These hands are already familiar to Credence. He doesn’t like them.

Percival takes his hand away and Credence snatches it back by the fingers. His hand is just as big as Percival’s, though they’re different shapes. He never realized.

“Can barely feel that,” Percival says. “Hardly feel anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, hoping that Percival is numbed by drugs and not anything worse.

His breath keeps catching at the back of his throat.

“Percival,” he says. “I do love you.”

There is no other explanation for his need to see Percival healed.

“Credence,” Percival says. “Am I dreaming?”

“No,” Credence says.

“That’s what you always say,” Percival says.

Percival’s voice slurs. He struggles to keep his eyes open. Credence squeezes his fingers in his right hand.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Percival says. “It’s good to see you even when you’re not real. I like seeing you. You’re so beautiful and I love you so much.”

“I am real,” Credence says. “I am here, Percival. This isn’t a dream.”

Percival makes a sound as though he agrees. He nods. He shuts his eyes.

Credence watches the rise and fall of Percival’s chest and clutches his hand long after Percival stops holding back. His hand is not cold. He is alive. He is still alive.

Credence gives up any pretense of being a healer and leans heavily against the bed. His head rests near Percival’s hip. He closes his eyes. His shoulders won’t stop shaking.

Does he also fall asleep? He might.

The murmur of Percival’s voice seems to wake him.

“Come back,” he says.

“Credence,” he says. “Come back.”

But Credence hasn’t gone anywhere. He lifts his head off the bed and releases Percival’s hand. Percival’s face turns away from him. He is asleep, but restless. His face contorts with pain like all the faces of strange men around them.

Credence looks at Percival’s bandaged leg.

Then he looks again.

The bandages are as white as the sheet over Percival’s body and the healer’s robes that Credence created for himself.

Could it be?

Credence’s hands shake at first, but they steady once he starts unwrapping the bandage. Every inch of pink, healed skin makes Credence feel dizzy. He wants to shout. He feels light, almost weightless. He coils the bandages up in his hands and nearly grins. It makes his cheeks hurt.

He wants Percival to know it was him. He did this. He was here. It was no dream.

Credence looks down at the white bandages and thinks of the silver flower pin tucked into his pocket for safe keeping.

He can perform healing miracles, now, surely turning a handful of cloth bandages into a flower is nothing. He’s seen magic like that before. Percival could do it easily.

Credence presses his hands together and thinks of blooming flowers.

He wants just one; he gets two fistfuls of delicate peonies.

It hurts to smile this much, but Credence can’t stop. He tucks the bouquet beside Percival’s shoulder so that when he turns his head again he’ll get a nose full of petals. Then he tucks the white blanket over Percival’s healed leg.

Credence walks to the doors of the church feeling sanctified. If there is a book in Heaven, he hopes his name his name is written down inside. Perhaps Percival’s is right beside it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is blood and explicit sexual content in this chapter.

> I exist in two places,
> 
>        here and where you are.
> 
> Your song is mine.
> 
>  
> 
> Pray for me
> 
> not as I am but as I am.
> 
> — Corpse Song, Margaret Atwood

 

He steps into the main hall of the Graves estate still dressed for war. He has no energy left to change his clothes back, only hollow happiness and exhaustion. There is mud under his short fingernails. He probably smells terrible, but his nose is still clogged.

He prays that no one sees him.

But it does not take long for Credence to realize the Graves estate is empty. There are no echoing footsteps to avoid. Not even the paintings that turn and stare at him make a whisper. 

He worries: Did the blasts of war leave him deafened? But the manor house is quieter than death itself.

After wandering through the halls, and taking a moment to scrub his hands until they feel clean and raw, Credence finds Percival sitting in the darkened library. It’s daytime, but the grey sky casts streaky and weak sunlight across the wood floor.

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?” Credence asks.

Percival startles like a bird. The shape of his coat moves like wings when he rushes to his feet and toward Credence.

He tenses in Percival’s embrace, but accepts it.

“Credence,” he says. Credence eases slightly at the tone of Percival’s voice. He stands and lets Percival lean into him.

“Well,” Percival says, when he draws back, “I’m not in the war anymore.”

“It’s over?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Yes, it’s hard to believe.”

After he lets Credence go, he takes a moment to look him over.

“You probably want to get cleaned up,” he says. “And have you eaten anything lately?”

Percival draws him a bath and then brings him a tray of food that sits perfectly across the curved porcelain edges of the tub.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, with his back half turned to Credence.

“You can look at me,” Credence says. He picks up an apple and it crunches under his teeth. There’s a knife, but Credence doesn’t bother with it.

“I should go find you something to wear,” Percival says.

Credence looks out into the dark hall and wonders still why the estate seems so empty. He eats bread and cheese with his hands and then rinses them in his bath water. His fingertips have gone soft and wrinkled long before Percival returns, but the bath stays steaming. It’s always perfect. Gunshots still ring inside Credence’s head, but his stomach is full and his body relaxed.

Percival’s clothing does not fit Credence well, but his magic reshapes it to his narrower waist and longer limbs. Percival rests his hands on Credence’s shoulders and stares him in the eye. The first few strands of grey show just above Percival’s ears. He has lines around his eyes and mouth. Credence swallows.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

“I meant it,” Credence says. 

“Meant what?” Percival asks.

Credence looks at Percival until he take his hands off his shoulders and steps back.

Percival pulls his lower lip into his mouth to wet it and Credence sees the edges of his teeth. He glances to his right. He swallows; Credence watches his throat move above his collar. He hasn’t shaved in at least a day. He looks so familiar, so dangerous.

“Thank you,” Percival says, “but you don’t have to do this just because of how I feel.”

“I love you, Percival,” Credence says. He cannot say that he’s been in love with him since the first moment he saw him, but maybe he has. It feels like something he has been fighting for a long time. Isn’t it easier to just give in?

Percival looks at him, terrified, as though Credence is an incoming mortar and not the prettiest healer in the whole wide world.

“We should try the map again,” Percival says. “The estate’s not too far from New York, we could be back in the city by tomorrow morning.”

“Alright,” Credence says.

There are hundreds of maps in the Graves’ library. Credence pricks his thumb and presses a bloody print to one of New York City.

Graves speaks over the map and doesn’t even take out his wand.

Credence’s blood swirls into a perfect drop and swims the edges of the Hudson and the East River. The little speck of red-brown searches from Harlem to Brighton Beach, but it never settles.

Percival Graves scowls at the map and pulls out his wand. He repeats the words, but the little drop of blood only moves faster, as though anxiously searching.

But it cannot find what it seeks, only rushes from Brooklyn to the Bronx and back again.

“I don’t understand,” Credence says. “I’ve never left New York.”

Percival sighs.

“Credence,” he says. “I’m sure this doesn’t really endear you to magic at the moment, but if you would be willing there’s something I’ve wanted to try.”

“What is it?” Credence asks.

“Well,” Percival says. 

He tucks his wand away and lifts his folded hands to his mouth.

“I looked. I swear to you, I looked,” Percival says. “I had a lot of time before the war, obviously, and I couldn’t find you. But I found a little bit of your mother and father — at least, I think they might have been your mother and father.”

“Please,” Credence says. 

He reaches out, but he doesn’t quite touch Percival.

“Would you show me?” he asks.

For some reason, this requires leaving the library and going all the way to the master bedroom in the east wing. Credence has never been here; Percival’s mother always took her rest in the east wing.

“Is your family away?” Credence asks, as he looks over the dust on the expansive dressing table and the towering bed posts.

“My mother died before the war was over,” Percival says. “The pox killed my father and one of my sisters — her husband and children also.”

“Percival,” Credence says.

His throat closes like a vice. With one hand, Credence carefully reaches out and touches the sleeve of Percival’s coat.

Percival opens the doors of a portion of the dressing table, then pulls out the lowermost drawer. He takes out his wand taps it against the box within the drawer.

“Peony,” he says. The box pops open as though spring-loaded.

“Here’s everything I could find,” Percival says.

He hands Credence a stack of papers and continues to speak, but Credence does not hear him. His pulse roars in his ears. His world narrows to the width of his mother’s jaw and the angle of her eyes. 

His mother’s wand permit application lists her name in Chinese characters, or what Credence thinks are such. There is no translation. Her date of birth is listed as June 28, 1876. Her hair and eyes are brown. She is five feet and four inches in height. 

Credence presses his fingertips to the green ink of her fingerprints. 

She is a certified translator of Chinese (Standard, Northern), French, Spanish, German (Standard), and English (Standard, American). Her wand is seven inches of yew with a dragon heartstring core. It is slightly crooked at the end and a family heirloom. The spells she lists as her most commonly used are all written in Chinese as well — except for one, “Scourgify.”

Credence’s hands shake as he moves aside the application and photo. Beneath it, another photo of her. She is smiling without showing her teeth beside a man with dark, curling hair. He has a pronounced nose and chin. His photo moves slightly to smile even more widely. Credence could count his teeth.

“What became of them?” Credence asks.

“Your father was killed,” Percival says. “Some spat of violence with No-Majs. Officially, your mother is listed as missing.”

Credence looks over Percival’s face and knows better than to ask.

“She never registered a birth,” Percival says.

“Many of the people living in the building you listed were half-bloods or recent immigrants, the sort of people who are purposefully avoiding MACUSA,” Percival says. “They don’t like to speak to aurors.”

Credence nods.

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you so much for finding even this.”

“Your father was a resident alien,” Percival says. “I mean, he may have gone to Ilvermorny, but I don’t have access to their records without a lot of hassle and questions.”

“Does that mean he wasn’t American?” Credence asks.

“Not as far as I can tell,” Percival says. 

“Huh,” Credence says. 

“There’s something else,” Percival says, “but I wanted to show you all of that first.”

There are other photos of his mother, but only the one of his father. Credence doesn’t mind. He looks at his mother, the freckles near her eyes and way she never shows her teeth in photographs. Some of them move and Credence can watch her blink and turn to one side and then the other. Her hair is so dark.

She spoke languages he doesn’t know. Did she speak to him in all of them?

Did she love him? She seemed as though she did.

What became of her?

“Thank you,” Credence says, at a loss for anything else to say. “Percival.”

He carefully aligns all the papers and photos and holds them out.

“I think, for now, that you should hold onto these,” Credence says. 

“I’ll keep looking,” Percival says. “We shouldn’t have a wand out there floating around.”

Credence thinks of his sister Modesty. He thinks about what it felt like to die.

“No, we shouldn’t,” he says.

Percival gives him a strange and sideways look then shakes his head. He’s playing with the lapels of his coat with his right hand. When he finally accepts the papers back, Percival carefully avoids touching Credence’s hands or looking him in the eye. The box snaps shut. The drawer slides closed. 

Percival smooths his hands over the front of his coat.

“Why have you been sitting alone in the dark?” Credence asks.

Finally, Percival looks at him. 

“I needed to think,” he says.

Credence narrows his eyes.

“Seraphina won her campaign,” Percival says. “She wants me in her cabinet.”

He sighs. “I haven’t mentioned her to you in years, have I?”

“No,” Credence says.

“She’s been… busy,” Percival says. “Imaginably, as president, she’ll be even busier.”

“And so will you,” Credence says, “if you join her.”

Percival nods.

“Do you want to do it?” Credence asks.

Percival looks at him and says, “I want to be able to help you. I want… I want to stop myself from hurting you.”

Credence looks at him and wonders if he means it. He doesn’t know how to tell whether or not he’s made a difference. Is it too soon to tell? His blood and Percival’s magic can’t even find him like it could before the war. 

He remembers the end of the war; he remembers being disappointed. Now, of course, that seems particularly horrible. He knows the war now and he wouldn’t have — well, with this thing inside of him, this darkness, perhaps he could have survived it. But when he was young, he didn’t want to survive it. 

If he had been older and gone away to war and died, he never would have met Percival Graves.

It doesn’t matter. In the time that has passed the war has already ended and, somewhere in New York City, Credence has started to understand that there was something truly wrong with him.

In his present, which is also the past, Credence realizes too late that a horrible silence sits between Percival and himself.

“You’re so young,” Percival says. “I never realized — well, I was young myself.”

Credence frowns.

“You shouldn’t have — I mean, I should have,” Percival says. He isn’t making any sense. He looks away from Credence and shakes his head. He sighs and tucks his coat back when he puts his hands into his pants pockets.

“I’ve been studying protective magic,” Percival says. “Wards, shields, concealments, seals — it served well in the war and it would serve well if I go to work for Seraphina, but that wasn’t my purpose in it.”

What was your purpose, Credence knows he ought to ask.

“There’s a spell,” Percival says, “well, a ritual really, I’ve had to half-reinvent it. I’m not sure it will work worth a damn, honestly, Credence, but if you’d let me —”

“Yes,” he says.

“— I’d like to try it,” Percival finishes.

“Yes,” Credence says again, a bit louder.

“Oh,” Percival says, and his eyebrows rise a little.

“Well,” he says, “I’ve got to get a few things then, but you can make yourself comfortable. My home is yours, Credence. It always has been.”

When Percival walks out the door, Credence follows him.

The eyes of the Graves family portraits follow them through the halls. Credence looks at them and wonders which dark-eyed, unsmiling woman was Percival’s mother. He doesn’t know. Isn’t that strange? Percival has clearly gone to great lengths to find Credence’s mother for him and Credence doesn’t know what Percival’s mother even looks like. He’s been wandering around her house for years, it seems, and he doesn’t know her face from any other.

He could ask, but instead lingers quietly behind Percival’s shoulder as he digs through curio cabinets and opens various safes strewn around the manor.

“I didn’t expect you to follow me,” Percival says.

“I promise I’m comfortable,” Credence tells him.

Percival looks over his shoulder. “Well, then you can hold this.”

He hands Credence an unidentifiable porcelain canister, which Credence carefully opens when Percival looks away again. Under the lid, the whole thing is packed with dirt.

Well, Credence has always known magic to be peculiar and strange. 

In the end, Percival collects a six different vials of strange liquids and herbs, an ornamented dagger, a polished copper bowl, and a pair of long reddish feathers with brown stripes. It seems completely random to Credence, and he does not ask Percival to explain himself.

“Where do you think we ought to do this?” Percival asks him.

“I don’t know what it entails,” Credence says. “Wherever you’d be comfortable.”

“Well, there will be a bit of blood,” he replies, as though it’s nothing, “and I’ll need you to take your jacket off and roll up your sleeves.”

“A bit of blood,” Credence repeats.

“Don’t fret!” Percival says. “It has to be mine, not yours.”

His attempt at a smile is uncomfortable to witness and does not at all keep Credence from being concerned. Credence looks at the dagger, with its bright blade. 

“Have you done magic like this before?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Well, not exactly this, but it’s not uncommon for more powerful and complex magic to require blood. You let me prick your thumb for a map.”

Credence frowns at the light shining off that dagger.

“If I have to undress, then I think we should do this in your bedroom,” Credence says.

“I never said you need to undress,” Percival says. 

“I’ve been covered in enough dirt and blood already,” Credence says, and Percival doesn’t argue with him. 

There is plenty of space in Percival’s bedroom — a master suite with its own adjacent study and even a bath. Credence has spent easily as much time here as he has anywhere else on the grounds of the Graves estate. He has seen the room shift from a nursery to the lone shelter of a young boy. Now, there is a sheen of dust on every surface. At least the sheets have been aired out.

Credence unbuttons his jacket and undoes his tie.

He glances over at Percival and watches him adding the different vials to a small, dark cauldron. Beside it, the copper bowl seems enormous. He pours the whole container of dirt into it and then adds the boiling liquid from the cauldron. The smell in the air, dusty and grimy and damp, makes Credence’s nose itch.

He takes off his shoes, but keeps his socks.

Percival, with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, moves the bowl in his hands in order to mix its contents. Credence wonders why he doesn’t use a spoon.

Credence spends a lot of time holding his suspenders and standing at the side of the bed in hesitation. In the silence of the room, he can hear Percival speaking incantations in a low voice. Credence turns away to unbutton his pants and folds them along with the rest of his clothing. His underwear is white and he’s not particularly keen on getting dirt or blood on it, but for now he only fiddles with the buttons. He doesn’t open them.

Behind him, Percival groans softly.

Credence looks over his shoulder and sees Percival propping himself up against the desk. He leans over the copper bowl clutching his arm. In the dim lights, his blood looks black as ink.

“Percival!” Credence says.

Percival looks at him with wide eyes. Credence moves to close the space between them, but Percival lets go of his own arm and holds a hand out to keep Credence at bay. The blood gushes then and Credence feels his stomach jolt at the sight. He can smell it, knows the difference between fresh blood and old blood. He never imagined there was a difference, but fresh blood smells like metal. It makes the air taste like a penny held under his tongue. 

“No,” Percival says, when Credence takes another step forward. 

“I have to do this,” he says, “for the spell.”

He’s doing this on purpose, then. He’s done this to himself. Credence _agreed_ to let him do this. 

“I’ve got to,” Percival says.

His breathing is shallow and unsteady. “I’ve got to be willing to die —”

“No,” Credence says.

“— for the spell to work at all,” Percival says.

“No!” Credence says, louder.

He puts his arm out. They struggle for a moment, with Percival pushing against the center of Credence’s chest. Credence gets Percival’s blood on his hands.

“Stop,” Credence says. He means for Percival to stop shoving him and instead the blood stops running through his fingers. 

Percival looks down at his arm. He’s pale and there’s sweat on his brow.

“The spell might not work now,” Percival says.

“Well, I’m already undressed and covered in blood,” Credence says. “I think we ought to try it.”

When Percival stands up, his legs shake slightly.

“Did you,” he begins. He stops to brush back his hair. He’s getting a bit of silver. Credence couldn’t see it until he was this close. It’s only a few hairs near his ears.

“Did I tell you a lot of ridiculous things the last time we met?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I didn’t mind it.”

He watches Percival’s throat move as he swallows.

“I love you,” Credence says. He is still practicing these words. He has never said them before that he can remember.

The happiness that he feels sometimes, when he has done something magical or miraculous, might have other explanations than love. But there is no other explanation for the horrible fear that grips him when he sees Percival hurt or in pain. 

He cannot forget about how badly this man, Percival Graves, is going to hurt him — and yet Credence cannot stand to see him hurt.

It’s worse than dying, he thinks.

What else can it be, but love?

Percival looks down. “I’ve always loved you. You know that.”

Credence breathes very carefully and watches the rise and fall of Percival’s chest. It doesn’t match his own.

“Do we do this standing?” Credence asks. “Or should I lie on the bed?”

Percival looks up and then at the copper bowl.

“It could take a while to finish,” he says. “You might be more comfortable on the bed.”

“Alright,” Credence says.

Percival’s bed is more clean than comfortable. It’s better than the bed he had at school, Credence supposes. But it sinks lower in the center than anywhere else. Credence feels oddly curved when he stretches out on it. 

From a distance, he watches Percival’s back as he moves the copper bowl in his hands. 

Everything smells like blood.

Percival climbs onto the bed with him and sits with the shining bowl in his lap.

“I think we can’t already have blood on us for this to work,” he says, and Credence takes him at his word.

With the snap of Percival’s fingers, Credence’s hands are clean.

“I’ve got to,” he says. “I mean, there’s patterns. I’m going to use this —”

He lifts the bowl, which is full of dirt and blood as far as Credence knows, and looks at Credence.

“— on you.”

“Alright,” Credence says.

“Your arms mostly, I think,” Percival says. “But I think also your chest.”

“Why not my ankles and throat while you’re at it?” Credence says. He means to tease. He thinks he’s teasing. But Percival seems to consider it.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” he says.

Credence sits up and takes off his socks. Then, he unbuttons his underwear from his throat down. He slides it off one shoulder and then the other until it falls down his back. He takes it off completely, because there’s no point in keeping it on. He wishes Percival had said any of this before Credence was on the bed. It’s a little more difficult to get out of his underwear when he’s sitting on it.

“You didn’t have to,” Percival says. 

He looks at Credence and his mouth hangs slightly open.

“Uhm,” he says.

He licks his lips before he shuts his mouth. Credence watches the flash of his tongue.

“Would you give me your hand?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

He offers Percival his left hand and Percival takes it in his own.

His right hand goes into the copper bowl and comes out caked in red, not blood red but… What was that ink on the menus ages ago? What was that color on Percival’s school clothes?

Not red, but cranberry.

What a strange color for something made of dirt and blood, so much brown.

Percival puts his fingers against his own arm first and begins to draw a line. He has to stop, but he is very careful with his motions. He begins at his own elbow and spirals around the width of his forearm twice. Then he draws a circle around his wrist and when he crosses over the back of his own hand he first touches Credence at his fingertips. 

The blood mixture feels warm under Percival’s touch.

He dips his hand into it again and draws a line that curves over Credence’s hand and then around his wrist. He does not let go of Credence’s hand even as he draws a line in blood that loops around his arm. He goes all the way to Credence’s elbow so that they match.

Credence’s left arm feels warmer than his right. It’s warmer than the rest of his body.

“You could lie down,” Percival says, “but I’m going to need your other hand.”

He reclines slowly and unfolds his legs, watching the way that Percival looks at him and then looks away. He looks back again, his eyes following the length of Credence’s naked legs.

Credence offers his right hand. This takes even longer than the left, because Percival isn’t as graceful with his left hand.

Credence feels warm all the way up to his shoulders when Percival finishes.

He speaks words in a language that Credence doesn’t know. The warmth pulses like a heart, but Credence cannot tell if it’s his own. He sighs. The bed is not firm enough. He feels himself sinking further and further into the center.

Percival’s hand touches his chest. Credence closes his eyes and feels the shapes that Percival paints on him with his fingers rather than looking at them. The warmth sinks into Credence’s chest, into his bones, into his heart. 

The thing already living inside Credence’s chest seems to welcome it.

We’re so cold, Credence thinks. We’ve always been so cold.

Because it’s something else, isn’t it? Something other. Some kind of creature, perhaps? Or a ghost?

A very cold ghost lives inside Credence’s heart, filling up a space where perhaps something like love or magic should have gone if he was an ordinary man or even an ordinary wizard. It’s lived there since he was very young, for almost as long as he can remember, maybe forever. The space inside Credence’s heart only ever got bigger and emptier. So this thing grew to fit.

This dark thing underneath Credence’s skin does not mind whatever magic Percival draws on his skin.

No, it seems to want it very much.

Credence feels warm to the very pit of his stomach.

He feels flushed in his face, not just his cheeks but also his scalp and his lips.

Percival’s hands draw a ring around Credence’s throat. He arches his back and lifts his shoulders to make it easier.

By the time Percival touches his ankle, Credence feels just short of breath. He blinks his eyes open and looks at Percival, bent over his feet and focused. Credence’s skin is pink all over. 

Percival drags his fingers over the skin and hair on Credence’s shins. Credence picks up his leg so that Percival’s hand can easily move along the swell of his calf muscle. Percival stops just under Credence’s knee the way he had at Credence’s elbows.

Credence thinks of the blue veins he’s seen under his own skin and the way his knees seemed to bruise some days just from walking or kneeling in prayer.

He always thought it strange that his blood looks blue under his skin, then purple in a bruise, but red when he was cut. Burns, he remembers, are very red. Blushing makes his face red. Even his ears, which feel hot with blood now.

Percival stays very focused. His dark eyes never wander from the spot on Credence’s leg where he’s drawing his lines.

“I’m finished,” Percival says. He sighs as though he’s held his breath the whole time. He looks down at the copper bowl and his own hands, not at Credence.

“Percival,” Credence says.

He looks up. His eyes move along Credence’s body like his hands, making Credence warm all over.

“I want you to kiss me,” Credence says.

Percival opens his mouth and then closes it. His cheeks puff out slightly, the way they used to when he was a child and not getting his way. It’s so incongruous on the face of this grown man whose first grey hairs have already appeared.

“Let me put this away,” Percival says.

He gets up and walks away, but the warmth in Credence’s skin doesn’t fade.

He wants to touch his own body, everywhere he’s warm, but he doesn’t want to disrupt the patterns that Percival drew. He lies very, very still and the warmth seems to grow into a fire. He listens to the thud of Percival’s shoes across the floor. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes them off.

Credence watches him from the corner of his eyes, not even turning his head.

“Are you going to do it?” he asks Percival’s back. “Or would it ruin the spell somehow?”

“The spell’s finished,” Percival says. “It’s done.”

“Then, please,” Credence says, “I want you to kiss me.”

He sits up and reaches out. He presses his naked chest to Percival’s clothed back. He puts his arms around him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Percival turns.

“Credence,” he says.

“Do you mean that?” he asks.

“You think I’m lying,” Credence says. It’s not a question. He pulls away slightly and lets Percival free from the circle of his arms.

“You’re so young,” Percival says.

Credence offers him no expression.

“You took me to your bed and tried to kiss me when you were a schoolboy,” he says.

Percival makes a wounded noise and his face scrunches up. He puts his filthy, bloody hands up to hide behind them.

“Don’t remind me,” he says.

“If you’d kiss me now,” Credence says, “I wouldn’t say anything more about it.”

“No, no, it’s fair,” Percival says. 

He turns and climbs into bed, still mostly dressed. He kneels before Credence and looks at him, all of him, from his toes to the tips of his hair.

“I used to dream of you,” Percival says. “My whole life, but more when I… When you weren’t visiting me as often, when I was older. I still dream of you all the time.”

“What am I like in your dreams?” Credence asks.

“Beautiful,” Percival says. “Just like you are now.”

Credence looks at Percival, whose face is growing into the one that he remembers. He can see the start of lines around his eyes and across his brow. He reaches out and touches Percival’s cheek. Credence remembers the first time he saw Percival Graves, the way the man seemed to look right at Credence in a crowd of so many others.

Men like that, he’d thought, don’t even notice men like Credence. It had to be a mistake.

He had seen so many well-dressed, clearly wealthy, clearly powerful, ever-so-handsome men in the streets of New York City.

But none of them had ever seen Credence.

He had thought… He had thought things which amounted to lies.

They may still amount to that.

“What year is it?” Credence asks.

“Nineteen twenty,” Percival says.

Credence hums as he turns that over in his mind. His tongue moves inside his mouth.

“Percival,” he says, “if you won’t kiss me, may I kiss you?”

He’s still touching Percival’s face.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Percival says.

His eyebrows have such a sad tilt as Credence leans closer.

“I would… yes,” Percival says. “Please.”

Credence shuts his eyes and presses his lips against Percival’s. He is not experienced with kissing, but Percival’s mouth is warm and soft. His tongue touches Credence’s lips, wet and hot. 

Credence’s jaw relaxes and he opens his mouth. It feels strange to be tasted by someone else, by Percival Graves. But Percival breathes into him as well and draws the air from Credence’s lungs as his own.

Percival puts his arms around Credence slowly, presses him down against the sinking mattress.

They kiss for so long that Credence feels devoured. Percival squeezes his arms tightly enough to hurt a little, but Credence does not feel trapped. He should, shouldn't he?

He bites at Percival, just to try it. He scrapes his teeth against Percival’s tongue and feels him groan into the hollow of Credence’s mouth.

When Percival pulls away, he gasps for air. He's shaking under Credence's hands.

“Credence,” he says, and no one has ever said his name like that.

“Credence, I love you,” Percival says. “There is no one else like you in all the world, in all my life.”

Credence blinks slowly.

“Does that mean you've never done this before?” he asks.

“What?” Percival asks.

He turns an interesting shade of pink, which Credence can see very close up.

“I mean, I kissed a few people in school,” he says, “but then there was auror training and work and the war.”

He glances away from Credence’s face and loosens his hold.

“It wouldn't be fair for me to play at love with other people,” he says. “I'd only be lying to them. Besides, can you imagine how uncomfortable it would be if I was with another man and you came around? I used to worry enough that you'd catch me touching myself someday.”

Credence doesn't know what to say. Percival seems embarrassed to have kissed anyone else.

“I'm a virgin,” Credence says.

Now, at least, they can be embarrassed together.

“Oh,” Percival says.

“You're the only person outside my sisters to ever love me,” Credence continues. Except now he thinks his real mother loved him for at least the time she was alive.

“I've never been called beautiful by anyone before you,” Credence says. “I don't think I've ever loved anyone but you, Percival.”

“Credence,” Percival says. “Oh, Credence.”

His arms tighten around Credence’s ribs.

“I adore you,” he says, “and I never imagined you might… That you would… I can't believe this is happening.”

“It's not a dream,” Credence says.

“I know,” Percival says. “My dreams of you are never as good as this.”

There is a part of Credence that finds those words, the very idea, ridiculous. He wants to laugh. Instead he draws his hand down Percival’s cheek and moves his thumb over the curve of his lower lip. 

“May I kiss you again?” Credence asks, though there’s more he wants than just kisses.

“Please,” Percival says. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Kiss me as much as you want, Credence.”

Credence pulls Percival down to him with a hand cupped over his ear. He cannot say whether Percival is a good kisser and he does not imagine that he is particularly good at this. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, really. He pulls Percival close enough that their teeth collide and Credence’s lip gets caught between them. It stings for a moment. 

Percival’s mouth is very wet upon his own and a drop of saliva runs down Credence’s cheek from the corner of his mouth. Percival tastes like nothing more than spit. Still, Credence does not feel weighted with sin nor lifted on divine ecstasy. He feels warm. Percival’s kisses are terribly warm.

Credence fits his knee between Percival’s legs and pulls his thighs together. His bare skin rubs against Percival’s clothes. They're pressed so close together that Credence feels the buttons of Percival’s waistcoat digging into his flesh.

“Credence,” Percival says into his mouth.

Credence’s breathing is shallow and too quick. His ribs hurt from the force of Percival’s embrace.

He pushes at Percival’s shoulders even while he clings to him with all the strength in his legs. But he has to breathe and Percival seems intent on crushing and kissing the air out of him.

“Percival,” he says.

Percival releases him very suddenly and tries to pull away. He offers a whole string of useless apologies, but Credence grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him back down. For his trouble, Percival’s elbow comes down right at the center of Credence’s chest. It knocks the sense out of him. He shouts.

“Damn it all,” Percival says. “Credence, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Credence says, then he starts coughing.

Percival rubs his neck and face. He kisses Credence’s cheek. Credence gulps down every breath until he can grab Percival by the hair and kiss him firmly on the mouth.

“I want,” he says.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

It strikes him suddenly how much effort he has put into avoiding the desires of his body. He avoided the touch of others. He has spent half his life too exhausted to want anything. The other half of the time, his hands were usually covered in sores and bruises. He was cold or hungry. He was too desperate to ignore the things inside his body to notice that he had a body at all.

Now here is Percival Graves on top of him and Credence feels he is nothing but skin. He wants Percival to kiss every inch of him. He wants to try to kiss Percival back in the same way, even if he is not particularly good at giving kisses.

“I wish we were both unclothed,” Credence says.

Percival looks surprised.

“Really?” he says.

Then he blinks. “Anything you wish, Credence.”

He tries to sit up, but Credence has crossed his knees behind his thigh and it catches him short. He still manages to do whatever magic that has all his buttons popping open at once. Percival’s waistcoat and shirt sweep off his shoulders so fast that the fabric snaps in the air like a pair of flags in a strong breeze. Credence surprises himself with a laugh. 

Percival wears so many layers that even with magic, he cannot undress all at once. He certainly tries though, and Credence enjoys the frenzy of it. With both hands, Percival pries Credence’s legs off of him just so he can get out of his pants. 

“Oh,” Credence says. 

He watches Percival’s ribs as he breathes like he’s been racing. His whole broad chest and his shoulders, even his belly moves with it. He’s kind of pink across his chest. Credence wants to kiss his skin and feel the dark hair on his arms and running lightly down his belly against his lips.

Instead he reaches out with both hands. He sits up. He wraps every limb around Percival this time, not just his legs.

“Credence,” Percival says.

Credence kisses whatever else he might say into nonsense.

With both arms around Credence’s waist, Percival pulls them down against the bed. Their chests press together until Credence feels as though Percival’s pounding heart is between his own ribs. Percival squeezes him just as tight, until it hurts. It’s as though he worries Credence is not real — or that he might disappear at any second.

Credence worries that too. He pushes his tongue deeper and deeper into Percival’s mouth.

His erection presses against Percival’s thigh and he feels Percival’s against his hip and belly. It ought to be obscene. It ought to feel unnatural. Instead, Credence finds he hitches his hips up and down just for the way his skin moves against Percival’s. Under him, Percival groans.

The kiss ends only when Percival holds Credence’s face with both hands and turns his mouth away. Credence’s lips press against Percival’s cheek. He finds the edge of Percival’s jaw, then his earlobe. He listens to the way Percival breathes when he feels Credence’s teeth.

“Do you,” Percival says.

“I mean,” he says.

“Would you,” he says.

The stubble is longer on Percival’s neck just beneath his jaw than on his cheek. It scratches Credence’s lips as he kisses his way down to the smoother parts of Percival’s throat.

“Morrigan’s wand,” Percival says. “I can’t even think, Credence.”

Credence lifts his head. “Do you need to?”

He looks at Percival’s face — his dark eyes, his darker brows, the flush that sits high in his cheeks and fills out the shape of his lips. Credence’s heart jumps up his throat and then drops like a stone right through him into his stomach and then even lower. Yes, he certainly feels the pulse of his heart at the very root of his erection.

“Well, uhm,” Percival says. “I wondered if you might want to penetrate me?”

Percival licks his lips. Credence blinks.

“That’s sodomy,” he says, and Percival’s dark eyes look away from him. He turns his head slightly.

Credence feels ill, twisted up and sour inside, but he cannot tell the cause: fear of damnation or fear that he’s causing harm to Percival.

He recalls the first time that Percival showed him magic, some weeks after Credence first saw the man standing across the street and their eyes met.

“That’s witchcraft,” had been an honest statement — or a question. He knew it was the greatest sin of all and he had felt sick to his stomach then, too. But he still wanted Percival and everything he had to offer.

That want feels like a meager candle compared to the flames that consume Credence now.

Credence swallows and leans down to brush his mouth against Percival’s cheek.

“I don’t wish to hurt you,” Credence says.

Percival looks at him and the sick feeling burns away. It was nothing then, not a fear of God at all. The worst has already happened to Credence. He is already damned upon the Earth, a wicked and unrighteous man. He is also a miracle worker, the martyred and reborn. Just to have Percival’s kisses prove that Credence is blessed. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except Credence’s desire for Percival.

“It shouldn’t hurt,” Percival says. “I mean, admittedly, I haven’t… I’ve only read about it.”

“Show me what to do,” Credence says. “Please.”

“I’m not sure,” Percival says. His eyebrows slope up toward the center of his forehead. He looks sweet and beautiful and completely ridiculous. Credence presses his mouth against Percival’s and Percival clutches his face with both hands like he can’t stand him to stop.

Then he moves his hand away from Credence’s cheek and jaw. He shoves his hand between their bodies and Credence’s body jerks when Percival grabs his erection. He pulls away from the kiss with a startled gasp.

Percival’s rough and quite firm touch becomes suddenly cool and wet. Credence bites down on his tongue to keep from making a sound.

“Is it bad?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence says, his voice strangled and strangely high.

He pushes himself up slightly on his elbows and looks down to see the way Percival holds him. Percival moves his hand up and down the length of Credence’ erection. It feels better than it has any right to, Credence thinks. A shiver runs down his back.

“You can just put your prick in me, then,” Percival says. “That’s how it usually goes in stories.”

Credence wonders if that’s true. He feels even more uncertain than Percival sounds.

Aware of how Percival holds him by his tenderest part, Credence sits up very slowly and carefully. He tries to arrange himself between Percival’s thighs so that he can see what he’s meant to do.

Instead, he sees so much of Percival’s body laid out on the bed before him. He looks and looks. The hair across Percival’s chest and dusted down his belly gets thick and dark between his legs. Even his thighs, which are nicely muscled, have more hair than his chest. Credence reaches out and puts both hands on Percival, not quite believe that his body is real.

“Credence,” Percival says. “I can’t even say how beautiful you are to me.”

Credence’s lips part but no sound comes forth.

“I want you,” Percival says, “as close as two bodies can be.”

“Yes,” Credence says. 

Credence moves his hands down Percival’s ribs, his broad chest, and then over his belly. He has a scar on his side that Credence runs his thumb across. He traces his fingertips over the way muscle meets Percival’s hips. The hair on his legs feels soft and agreeable under Credence’s palms. He pushes Percival’s thighs apart, but it’s Percival who pulls his knees up. 

His hips tilt back and the skin on his belly creases. His erection lies heavy and flushed against his skin, framed by all that dark hair. 

Everything that Percival shows him now ought to be the depths of obscenity, the worst of carnality, but Credence sees only beauty. His heart beats against the bones of his chest. He can hardly breathe for the force of his desire. 

Percival concedes when Credence pushes his hand away from his erection. Credence is the one who can see what he’s doing, after all, even if his hand shakes. His whole arm shakes. 

He holds himself as still as he can as he touches his flesh to Percival’s. The sight makes him feel unsteady. His heart pounds. Credence swallows.

“Go ahead,” Percival says.

Credence glances up to Percival’s face and finds him looking just as flushed at his lips and cheeks as he is at the tip of his erection. What an intimate thing to behold and to know of Percival Graves.

Credence pushes himself against Percival and feels mostly resistance. Percival’s body yields, but only slightly. Percival hisses between his teeth. When Credence looks to his face again, Percival’s open expression has pulled tight. His eyes are squeezed shut and his jaw clenched. There is some give, then, but Credence watches the pink flush drain from Percival’s cheeks. He looks down and Percival’s arching erection, which rested heavy against his belly, has gone soft.

Credence recoils.

Percival blinks his eyes open. “Credence?”

“Did I hurt you?” Credence asks.

“Well,” Percival says, his chest rising and falling unsteadily. “I expected it would hurt.”

Credence feels — oh, this is a familiar feeling when it comes to Percival Graves. He feels cold to the tips of his fingers. Bile climbs up the back of his throat and burns at the center of his chest. 

“How could you let me hurt you?” Credence asks him.

“What?” Percival asks. He levers himself up on his elbows and then reaches out for Credence.

“How could you,” he says, pulling away from Percival’s touch.

“Credence, no, please don’t be angry with me,” Percival says. 

He lets his hands drop to the bed. “I want to be with you. Morrigan’s wand, I’ve wanted to have sex with you since I knew that two men could, Credence, and I… I didn’t mind it, really.”

Credence hates that no matter how cold he feels, his erection stands out from his body completely undeterred. He is used to the betrayals of the flesh, but this one seems particularly cruel. 

“If it hurts, then I should be the one to —” Credence cuts himself off. 

Yes, he certainly has years of experience in accepting pain and humiliation. But he doesn’t want to ask for more.

“Isn’t there another way?” he asks.

“I suppose so,” Percival says. “I mean, I could get you off with my hands or my mouth, or the Ancient Greeks used to use the underarm even.”

Percival looks at his own armpit and Credence follows his gaze.

“You’re making that up,” Credence says.

“I am not,” Percival says. “I read it in a book.”

“I’ve never read any books like that,” Credence says.

He stops to swallow.

“But I think I would like to kiss you again. I’d like to kiss you everywhere, every inch of you.”

The color comes back to Percival’s cheeks. 

“Oh,” he says.

Credence fears for a moment that the idea is ridiculous, not at all something Percival would want, something childish or unappealing or wrong. Isn’t that what Credence always is?

“Yes,” Percival says. “Please.”

Percival reaches out for him and Credence meets his hands with his own. He lets himself be pulled. Percival holds his face and kisses him. The ends of their noses press together too hard. Percival pulls back and makes a face, but then kisses him again.

The weight of Credence’s body pushes Percival back down against the bed. His thighs rest at the sides of Credence’s narrow hips. He is warmth beneath Credence. His hands are hot against Credence’s shoulders.

He kisses Percival’s cheek, his jaw, his throat, the hard bones of his collar and the softer flesh on his arms. Until his lips feels bruised, Credence presses his mouth against every part of Percival he can reach.

Somewhere between Percival’s ribs and his navel, Credence realizes that Percival is not that much larger than him. His shoulders are broad, but so are Credence’s. He can feel that when Percival holds him and digs his fingers in. 

Credence feels suddenly powerful.

He bites the soft skin on Percival’s belly and Percival draws a sharp breath. He swears. He says Credence’s name in a deep, growl of a voice.

“Please,” he says.

Credence bites him again, then. He digs his teeth in then pulls back startled when Percival shouts. The shape of his teeth stays red on Percival’s skin.

Percival’s chest rises and falls with every harsh breath. A few loose hairs stick to his forehead with sweat. His erection stands tall and flushed. Credence wants to kiss it. He wants to press his mouth all over it, until he knows how Percival feels and smells and _tastes_.

Surely that is a diseased and repulsive thing to want. Surely plenty of other men have wanted it, if Percival can find it in books.

“The way you look at me,” Percival says. 

Credence blinks and looks to Percival’s face.

“I’ve imagined this so much, but I,” Percival stops and licks his lips.

“I had no idea it would be like this,” he says. He lifts his hand and combs his fingers through his hair then stops. His arm rests in midair.

Credence waits to hear what Percival has to say.

“Do you want, uh,” Percival drops his hand down to the bed and Credence watches him glance down the length of Credence’s body until his eyes reach his erection. 

“I’d like to cover you in kisses as well,” Percival says. 

Credence dives toward Percival and crushes his mouth against Percival’s lips. This time their noses collide sharply enough to make Credence see white spots behind his eyelids.

“Yes,” he says, pulling away.

Then, “Percival, I want to kiss your…”

He tries to quickly think of a word that is not hideously crude.

“Thing,” he tries.

“My thing?” Percival asks. He raises an eyebrow and looks close to laughing.

“You can call it a cock,” Percival says. “I won't be offended.”

Credence huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. He pushes himself up off of Percival so that he can get between his legs. It’s an awkward series of motions — all elbows and knees — but Percival watches him with his lips slightly parted. His mouth is so pink with blood.

“I’ve never seen a rooster,” Credence says. 

“What?” Percival asks. He laughs softly, and Credence thinks that they understand each other. He hopes that they do.

“But I don’t think it looks like any kind of bird,” Credence adds. He swallows his words a little. He can feel the heat in his face.

“I don’t,” Percival says. “I mean — is that a compliment?”

Credence looks down, then up to Percival’s face, and then away.

“It’s an observation,” he says.

“Oh,” Percival says. “Well.”

If Credence could think of a compliment, he would offer one. Instead, he bows his head and kisses the very tip of Percival’s erection.

Percival hisses his breath between his teeth. Credence glances up. He watches Percival’s face carefully now, and Percival looks back with equal intensity.

It feels slightly wet against his lips. Credence pulls back enough to swipe his tongue against the same spot he just kissed. Percival’s chest hitches up and then down.

Turning his head, Credence kisses his way down the length of it. It's warm in his hand and against his mouth. He imagines the pulse of Percival’s heart — or perhaps he feels it so faintly it could be mistaken for a flight of fancy. 

Credence kisses the hair at the very root of it, even though it feels strange against his face. He flinches at getting it on his tongue. But there's a clean, warm smell at the crease of Percival’s thigh. It tastes intimate and strange, the scent of the man under all the pomade and cologne and aftershave lotions. 

Percival Graves is flesh and blood, sweat and tears.

He is the acrid little drop that wells up at the tip of his erection and is swept away by Credence’s tongue.

Credence presses his hips down against the bed and moves his body in time with each wet kiss he leaves up and down Percival’s erection.

“Credence,” Percival says. 

Credence’s kisses are steadier than Percival’s breathing.

“May I,” Percival says.

Credence watches Percival reach out and gently brush the edge of his jaw. His hand lightly touched the crown of Credence’s head.

He makes a sound without taking his lips from Percival’s skin. Percival takes it for what it is. He combs his hands through Credence’s hair with a groan.

Credence strokes Percival with a firm hand. He covers the tip of Percival’s erection with open-mouthed kisses. He thinks of taking it into his mouth, but he worries about his teeth. He never feels as though he knows what he’s doing, but he watches Percival flush darker and darker shades of pink. 

Percival tries to speak and only groans. Credence sees him fight to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.

“Credence,” he says, voice fractured by a moan. “Oh, look out.”

Percival’s chin tips up into the air. Credence feels the sudden wetness against his lips and doesn’t pull away. It flows down over his hand, getting on his fingers and knuckles. He licks it off Percival’s skin even though it’s bitter.

Certainly, this is the most obscene thing that Credence has ever done.

He only feels proud. Percival Graves collapses back against the bed with his broad, hairy chest heaving. He cries out Credence’s name and throws his hands over his face.

“Let me,” he says, his voice rough. He grabs at Credence’s shoulders blindly.

Credence pulls himself up to Percival’s level. He presses his wet mouth against Percival’s lips. They kiss and Percival kisses him with even more vigor now that his mouth tastes like Percival’s release. Credence’s body shakes with need.

“Let me,” Percival says. “I can do that for you. I want to worship you.”

Credence pulls away just enough to look into Percival’s dark eyes. His heart beats against the inside of his chest like a fist.

“Alright,” Credence says.

He expects Percival to turn him onto his back, but once Percival rolls Credence over he climbs off the bed. 

Credence nearly follows him, but Percival stops him with his hands on Credence’s thighs.

“Just like that,” he says, before he goes down onto his knees.

Credence stares.

Percival looks up at him from the floor. He kneels as though in prayer between Credence’s knees. Credence’s erection moves and the very end of it touches his belly for a moment.

“It’s big,” Percival says. He puts a hand around it and wipes away what is left of the conjured up oil — at least, Credence thinks it was oil. Percival wipes his hand on the bed next to Credence’s hip.

He glances up to Credence’s face again. “Not that I thought it wouldn’t be, uh.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Credence says. He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself and he would be content to kiss Percival while he rubbed his erection against the bed, or his hand, or perhaps even against Percival’s body. This feels strangely intimate. He doesn’t know what to make of the way Percival looks at him.

“I want to do this,” Percival says. “Oh, I truly want to.”

He takes Credence in hand and guides the flushed end of his erection into his open mouth. Credence watches his own flesh disappear between Percival’s lips. The room seems to spin around and then narrow to just this sight — and the wet heat of Percival’s tongue. Credence can feel it moving inside of Percival’s mouth. 

Credence tries very hard not to move, but Percival pushes himself down until he chokes. Credence feels him choke.

Percival pulls back slightly, enough to breathe, and the air rushes along Credence’s skin. Credence wants to push him away, but he puts his hands on Percival’s shoulders and cannot seem to move. He leans over and breathes fast and hard.

The wet sound of Percival’s mouth, his throat, his gasping breaths, fill Credence’s ears. He flushes down the length of his chest. His toes curl against the floor.

“Percival,” he says. 

Percival swallows around his erection and this time he does not choke. Credence feels devoured. 

He cannot catch his breath. He clutches Percival’s shoulders. Sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. His legs start to shake.

“Percival,” he begs. “Stop, please, stop.”

Percival pulls back in a sudden movement.

“Credence?” he asks, his voice turned into a rasp.

“It’s too much,” Credence says. “I can’t take it.”

The drop of saliva hung from the curve of Percival’s lower lip makes Credence feels as though his whole body is one pulsing nerve — one pounding heart. He slides off the bed without even intending to move. Percival catches him in his arms, so close that Credence’s erection presses against his belly, still wet with spit.

“Did I hurt you?” Percival asks.

“No, no,” Credence tells him. He moves his body against Percival’s and it feels so good to move. He was so afraid to move that his hips ache now from the force of holding his body still. He wants to thrust himself against Percival like an animal, like a dog.

He kisses Percival’s cheek with an open mouth. Percival turns so that his lips meet Credence’s.

His arms fit beautifully under Credence’s thighs. Certainly, he thinks, Percival can’t intend to pick him up. He has to hunch his back just to kiss Percival. He has never been more aware of how large, how ungainly, how impossible his body is.

Oh, but Percival lifts him right to his feet. For a moment, Credence feels like this must be like flying, being brought up into the air in the hold of Percival’s arms. He wraps both arms around Percival’s neck.

“May I touch you?” Percival asks, while pressing his body down against Credences on the bed. He puts Credence right on his back, but Credence’s legs go around Percival’s naked hips.

Credence nods, but doesn’t stop trying to kiss Percival.

Percival’s hand holds him tight, and moves fast and rough. He makes Credence’s hips jerk. Some magic makes Percival’s hand slick again. It’s cool between their flushed bodies and Credence swallows a shout. His thighs tense. His body jerks. He feels like he's dying — like he's going to explode.

“Credence,” Percival says. “I love you. I adore you. You beautiful creature, please, please, will you come for me? I want you to.”

And in that moment, Credence truly believes him. His shaking body feels as though it belongs to Percival. He's no longer in control of himself, if he ever was. He is not bewitched but possessed.

He finds release and his heels dig into Percival’s back hard enough to bruise.

Percival is still speaking to him, but Credence doesn’t hear. His arms and legs tense. Muscles in his back seize up. He feels like he’s tearing into pieces. 

Then it’s done. He keeps shaking, but Percival holds him down against the bed. His lips brush against Credence’s earlobe.

“Love you,” Percival says. “Darling.”

He says Credece’s name again, softly. Credence’s body begins to still. His heart keeps pounding.

“Percival,” he says, and his voice sounds like an awful croak. His throat hurts.

“Oh, Credence,” Percival says.

They kiss again.

Credence feels his body becoming his own again, and he realizes that he is now covered in sweat and semen as well as blood and dirt and magic.

“Could we take a bath?” he asks.

“Yes,” Percival says, “absolutely.”

But Credence’s skin grows cold the moment Percival pulls away from him. Not even the robe that Percival offers compares.

“What season is it?” Credence asks, his bare feet against the floor.

“Spring,” Percival says. “It’s late March, but it’s been cold this year.”

Percival looks at the floor. He stops pulling on his own robe and tosses it to the side.

“Come here,” he says.

Credence takes a few unsteady steps until he’s close enough for Percival to put his arms around him. 

“The manor has wards to prevent apparation,” he says, as though Credence understands. “But it’s possible to get around them if you happen to be the person who set the wards.”

He smiles at Credence as though he’s very proud of himself. Credence smiles back, because he’s absolutely ridiculous standing here naked and filthy with his hair all out of place. Percival clutches Credence tight with both arms.

They move and for a split second Credence feels himself being pulled apart. There’s something unsteadying to the move that reminds Credence of the way he seems to move through time. He blinks and they’re standing in the bathroom. The marble floor feels like ice under Credence’s feet. 

Percival draws a bath by magic that is just the right temperature and does not overflow with both their bodies. Percival starts out on the opposite side from Credence, with his legs resting on top of Credence’s.

He can’t stop smiling. The water slicks his hair back and makes his eyelashes stick together. Credence washes the pink of magic and blood off his skin along with his semen and sweat.

“Stay with me,” Percival says. “I want you to.”

Credence leans forward until he has to move his legs because his knees are hitting him in the chest. The water drags across his skin. It feels like it’s trying to hold him in place. He doesn’t want to make a mess, but he wants to kiss Percival.

“I’d stay if I could,” he says.

“Please,” Percival says.

Credence kisses him.

He ends up between Percival’s thighs and pulled back against his chest. Percival holds onto Credence with both hands. He kisses the back of his neck again and again. The water never gets cold.

“I’m tired,” Credence says.

“Stay the night,” Percival says.

When he finally forces himself out of the bath, warm towels and a robe await Credence. Percival kisses his cheek unexpectedly while he’s tying the robe shut and Credence accidentally ties the knot around his index finger.

This time, they walk back to Percival’s room.

Credence sits on the edge of the bed and wonders how Percival can stand it, the way the mattress sinks in the center. He has magic, doesn’t he? 

“I’m not used to sharing,” Percival says, “I usually sleep right in the middle of the bed.”

He sits down beside Credence and places his hand over Credence’s knuckles.

“But I could get used to it,” he says.

Credence looks at Percival’s face for a long time. He searches his thoughts for the words to answer this. He feels as though he knows too much of Percival now. He has intimate knowledge of his body and his heart. 

These are not things that Credence should know. He doesn’t deserve to feel as though Percival _belongs_ to him. He does not know if he even wants to feel this way. 

He turns his hand so that Percival’s fits inside his palm. He laces their fingers together.

If Percival truly belongs to him, then surely Credence has spared himself a terrible fate in another six years. But if he has done that, then how is he still here? It is that terrible fate that sent him ricocheting through Percival’s life. As long as he is here, then he hasn’t saved himself.

“You look tired,” Percival says.

“I am,” Credence says.

“But still beautiful,” Percival adds.

Credence takes his hand away from Percival’s so that he can undress.

“I should get us some nightclothes,” Percival says.

“No,” Credence says. He pulls his robe off his shoulders and stands up for a moment just to fully remove it.

“I’d like to sleep like this,” he says. He looks at Percival. 

“Alright,” Percival says. “Anything you want.”

He wants to feel Percival’s skin against him. He wants to sleep with him as though they could be lovers. He will regret it if he wakes up in another time without any clothes, but it’s a risk he wants to take. He’s been able to sleep through the night with Percival before.

But everything feels too good to be true. Percival kisses his forehead and his cheek. Credence returns the kisses at the tip of Percival’s nose. Their bare legs fit together and Percival faces him as they fall asleep.

Credence wakes more comfortable than he can ever remember being. He has Percival in his arms and Percival’s hand rests on his ribs just above the curve of his waist. When he tries to move away gently, Percival’s eyes open.

“You’re still here,” he says.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“I love you,” Percival says.

Credence kisses him softly.

“I love you also,” he says, and it makes Percival smile.

They both need the bathroom once they manage to get out of bed. Credence wears his robe out of bed and has to go back for his clothes. There’s something very familiar about doing this in the Graves manor. He knows these empty hallways. He knows the drafts around the corners and the creaking wood of the stairs.

“I’ll make breakfast,” Percival offers, but Credence helps him keep the toast from burning.

“You haven’t been eating well,” Credence says. “Or sleeping.”

“No,” Percival says.

Credence frowns.

“We should try the map again,” he says.

“Percival,” Credence says. “You have to take care of yourself.”

They eat at a small table in the kitchen. The manor has never felt so large, but Credence kicks his foot out and bumps his toes against Percival’s shin.

“Yes?” Percival says. He lifts his eyebrows. 

The bright sun and the way it doesn’t fall through the windows yet lights the whole kitchen tells Credence that it must be late morning, or nearly midday.

“I said, you have to take care of yourself,” Credence repeats.

“I’ll try,” he says. The corner of mouth lifts.

He takes a bite of eggs and washes it down with coffee.

“But you only show up when I’m not taking care,” he says. “Have you noticed that?”

Credence has.

This time, Credence is the one to go silent. He finishes the rest of his breakfast and Percival never once prompts him to speak. He looks at him across the table. Sometimes he smiles, but sometimes he only looks. Credence looks back. 

“I want to try the map again,” Percival says.

They try a whole series of maps. Credence pricks his thumb again and again, until it’s bruised and bloodstained. He puts it against his tongue to soothe it.

Percival leans against the table and scowls. So many drops of Credence’s blood swirl around on so much paper. New York, the maps say. Credence is definitely in New York City. But where?

When Percival looks up at Credence, his expression softens. Without a word, he stands up straight and comes to Credence’s side. He puts a hand to his wrist. Credence takes his thumb out of his mouth. Percival leans in close and kisses it.

The ends of their noses brush.

Credence does not blink for a second, then leans in suddenly. Percival’s lips part for him. 

“Please,” Percival says. “Stay with me.”

“I want to,” Credence tells him.

He pushes Percival away by his shoulders, but holds onto him.

“I don’t know if I can,” he says. “I’ve never known how this works.”

“Time magic,” Percival says.

He licks his lips and Credence contemplates the value in kissing Percival quiet. But, Credence has always wanted to know. It’s 1920 already. In six years, he’ll die. Or he won’t. Either way, he doubts he’ll ever understand how this came to be.

“It’s notoriously unstable,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s possible, obviously, but as much as I read in school and afterwards, I never found any case like yours. There’s usually an object.”

Percival’s hands rest against Credence’s chest for long enough to warm him through the fabric of his shirt.

“But if you had a Time-Turner, I think either of us would have noticed,” Percival says.

He laughs, but Credence doesn’t. He waits.

“I worry that I can’t find you, because… Because it would disrupt time,” Percival tells him. “Or because we already have and you…”

He takes a breath in and his shoulders shake under Credence’s hands.

“Credence, I’m worried that we’ve already changed things,” Percival says.

“That’s what I want,” Credence says. “To change things.”

“But you can’t,” Percival says.

“No,” Credence says.

“You can’t,” Percival insists. “If you change things, Credence, you could… It would be like you never existed.”

Credence wishes he had kissed Percival instead of letting him talk.

He pushes Percival away and turns sharply. 

“Where are you going?” Percival asks.

The door opens before Credence reaches it, forcefully enough to hit the wall with a bang. Credence walks through the doorway and listens to Percival’s hard footsteps.

“Credence!” he calls. He tries to grab Credence by the arm, but Credence jerks out of his grip. He stumbles and his shoulder hits the frame of a painting. 

“I’m going for a walk,” Credence says.

He walks backwards for two steps, keeping an eye on Percival. He doesn’t follow. He just stands there, dressed all in black and white. Credence watches him blink.

Before he leaves the manor, Credence heads back to the bedroom. He left his peony pin behind by mistake when he dressed. He pins it in place and looks at himself. His hair has grown out too much, long enough to tuck behind his ears. 

These clothes look like none he owned when he was alive. He never wore finery.

He had never been kissed or loved.

No, no, his mother — the woman with her unreadable name and her long braid and her square face — had loved him. 

What became of her?

Credence walks through the halls and avoided the eyes of every portrait. He doesn’t see or hear Percival. It’s as though he was alone in the whole house, perhaps the whole world.

The cold seeps into the manor under the edge of the door, digging into Credence before he steps outside. 

He braces, of course, to be thrown forward in space and time. Certainly, the next place he goes will be the end of him. He flinches in expectation.

But there is only the manor grounds before him. Credence shakes himself and heads for his favorite hedge maze. Or Percival’s favorite. Credence certainly found him in it more than once when he was young enough to be out alone, but perhaps too young to navigate ten-foot thorn bushes.

The maze leads out into the woods that surround the manor and Credence keeps walking. The sun rises high in the sky, but the boughs of trees block it out. Even in the autumn, when more leaves litter the ground, the forest blots out the sun.

Mist crawls across the fallen branches and leaves.

In the distance, he sees a great flash of blue light. He ducks his chin and raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness slicing through with the bodies of trees. 

The light turns many of those trees to dust.

Credence blinks the spots from his eyes and watches more flashes of light scatter through the forest. He hears someone scream.

War, Credence thinks. 

Not _the_ war, but a war.

He stumbles forward for a moment and then breaks into a run. Branches snap under the heels of his shoes. He staggers once and catches himself. He hears laughter filtering through the trees from a distance, loud enough to be heard over his own harsh breathing.

Credence feels himself already coming apart. 

He knows he can stop this, whatever it is.

He knows that he needs to. Because Percival is here, somewhere, lost in the maze of twenty-foot trees and the sharp thorns of magic.

He makes it hardly twenty more feet before his foot catches on something and he overbalances. Credence goes down hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Leaf litter, slightly damp, gets in his mouth.

“Damn it,” he says, spitting. 

“Credence?” Percival says. 

Credence scrambles to his knees. He doesn’t see anything for the longest moment. It’s dark and damp everywhere. He feels the dirt under his fingernails.

He tripped not on a tree root, but the curve of Percival’s knee. He’s leaned against the body of a massive tree, its bark darker than the night around them. Dirt obscures Percival’s face, but Credence brushes it away with his hands.

Or he tries.

Really there’s mud all over both of them and he doesn’t do much. He kisses Percival anyway.

When Credence pulls away, Percival laughs just once and then stops. His face twists with pain.

“Are you alright?” Credence asks.

“I don’t think so,” Percival says. “But you’re here now.”

Credence moves his hands from Percival’s face, searching for wounds or blood or anything. All he gets is the tight expression on Percival’s face. He’s trying not to show what he feels.

“You know,” he says, “I’m named for Sir Percival, but it seems as though you’re my knight in shining armor.”

“What?” Credence says.

“Never mind,” Percival says. He tries to smile for a moment and then grits his teeth and shuts his eyes tight enough to twist his face into a grimace.

Percival’s hands are filthy when he touches Credence. It feels as though his fingers are made of ice around Credence’s wrist.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I mean, I think I’m dying, but…”

He stops and Credence watches his lips part as he tries to swallow down shallow breaths.

“You’re not dying,” Credence says. 

He can feel something crawling out of his skin. 

“Credence,” Percival says. “I saw you.”

“I’m right here,” Credence says.

In the distance, someone screams and Credence flinches. Percival puts a cold and dirty hand against his cheek.

“I stopped right in the middle of the street when I saw you, but you didn’t recognize me,” Percival says. “I think it was the first time you ever saw me.”

Something rattles inside Credence’s chest.

“It’s 1926,” he says.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Listen, Credence…”

Credence can hear something wet in every breath Percival takes. He feels himself shaking apart, completely unable to focus whatever power he has on fixing what’s been broken.

“It’s not me,” Percival says.

“Be quiet,” Credence says. His eyes burn and suddenly the forest is alight with magic. He can see every needle hung from the bough of every pine. He can see the blood and bits of teeth and bone left from the wizards who fought beside Percival. He knows who they are and what they did, what they died trying to do.

He feels the way he felt when he was dying — exploded into a thousand pieces.

At the edge of the forest, a man stops and turns. He looks at Credence.

“The man I’m fighting,” Percival says, “the man I fought, he has a wand so powerful, I didn’t know it could even…”

Credence hears the worms crawling through the dirt under his knees. He can hear the whispers of the trees speaking to each other where their leaves carefully do not touch, where their roots do. The worms have the knowledge of birds and rain and boots. The trees twist themselves together beneath the soil and then avoid each other above it. They are all one tree. Every worm is the same worm. Every speck of mud is the same mud. Every drop of blood also.

Every moment in time is the same moment. He is not moving forwarding. He is falling into the darkness of a grave. 

He can see Percival then, not as a man, but as a machine of God’s creation, more complex than a typewriter or a car engine. He can see, then, how to save him. His body is Credence’s own body. 

All magic is the same magic.

“I’m sorry, Credence,” Percival says. “I’m not making sense.”

Dead bodies don’t matter. The gore. The dirt. The man. The forest. Nothing matters.

“He can make himself look like anyone,” Percival says. “He can do anything he wants, and the only thing he wants is death and suffering.”

Something dark and horrible eats away at Percival inside, moving just slow enough to ensure he suffers. The malice in the magic, Credence can feel it in his fingernails and at the back of his tongue. He swallows. 

There is something familiar about it.

He chases every tendril of it in Percival’s blood and nerves. His lips pulls away from his teeth. He feels tears running down his face. The dark thing within him lashes at nearby trees and digs claws into the soil.

Then, Credence realizes, he’s done. 

There is only blood inside Percival’s heart and his own.

Percival breathes easily, steadily. His hand is warm against Credence’s cheek.

“I don’t think you should have done that,” he says. “But I’m grateful.”

Credence leans forward until his nose touches the end of Percival’s. Then his sweat-damp forehead touches Percival’s, which is gritty with dirt.

“Credence,” Percival says. “I owe you my life. I always have.”

“Yes,” Credence says.

“You need to go,” Percival tells him.

“I love you,” Credence says, and it feels like only hours ago he was sleeping beside him. Only hours since he was painted in blood and magic.

“I know,” Percival says. “I love you, Credence. That’s why you need to go. He’s still here.”

Credence looks into Percival’s eyes, and it’s so dark he cannot tell the difference between the pupil and the iris. His eyes are so dark. The forest is so dark.

“He can’t find you,” Percival says. “I swore I would protect you. I swore it in blood and grave dirt.”

“Yes,” Credence says.

The moments of his life and Percival’s seem to be falling together. Credence wanted revenge. He wanted to destroy Percival and save himself.

But, perhaps more than that, he wanted to know.

He had wanted to understand; now, he thinks he does.

Credence braces his hands against the massive trunk of the tree to push himself up onto his feet. He offers a hand to Percival. 

“Please,” Percival says. “Be safe.”

Credence simply nods his head. He cannot make any promises, it would be dishonest.

He turns away and walks out into the dark of the woods. When he wants to move forward, now, he does so with intention. He knows exactly what he’s walking into.

Credence steps out of the German wood into the openness of Central Park. It’s New York. He knew it would be, but he had expected the Subway. Above him, grey clouds block out the dawn. It rains and he turns his face up into it. It hadn’t been raining when he tore the roof off of Civic Center’s stop.

But Credence has quite a view of the city from here. In the distance, he can see a few of the buildings he threw himself into with the full force of his anger. 

The rain doesn’t washes the dirt from his face and hands, so much as turn it into mud on his skin.

Credence looks out at the skeletons of buildings with their broken and exposed metal bones and watches them being knit back together by magic. It must be magic. Someone is fixing what Credence broke.

He looks away and heads in the direction of the bridge. He keeps his eyes on his feet.

At first glance, it looks like a pebble washed clean by the rain, but Credence is walking slowly. He stops and stares.

The memory of battlefields washes over him.

It’s the end of a finger, sticking out of the mud. Credence can see the edge of the nail and dirt caught in the whorls of its skin.

He feels like he might throw up. The bile rises at the back of his throat. His knees shake. He kneels and clears dirt away from the fingertip.

He digs his hands into the exposed soil and comes up with a whole hand, a whole wrist with a shirt cuff stained almost black with dirt. Credence’s breath shakes his ribs. He becomes frantic.

His magic barely helps him. He is on his knees in the weeds scooping up clumps of earth and revealing a chest, an arm, a throat. It’s only a few inches of dirt, not even enough to fill a clay flower pot. Credence gulps down a sob as he reveals a familiar mouth and chin.

The rain soaks his hair and clothing by now. The mud seeps through Credence’s pants at the knees. Even his socks are wet.

It washes the dirt out of Percival’s open eyes as Credence digs him out.

Credence shoves his hands into the ground and cups them behind Percival’s head. His whole body is stiff as stone and though Credence curses from the effort, he cannot pry him out of the cold ground.

He does not scream or weep, though strange and animalistic sounds threaten from within his throat. His body heaves and convulses. That bile spills over his tongue and drools like spit from his lips.

“No,” he says, but it comes out like a wail. 

His face aches from the way it contorts with pain. 

The only thing that Credence wants is for Percival Graves to be alive.

He thinks, hysterically, of fairy tales about magic. Magic isn’t wicked witches and innocent birds, not knights and princesses. Credence knows that now more than he ever has. Still, he bows his head and presses his mouth to Percival’s.

He breathes against his lips, which feel as warm and living as a marble statue.

“Percival,” he says, “please.”

Percival’s mouth opens and he gasps for air.

Credence pulls away and scrambles back on the ground. His heart feels like it will leap out of his mouth with fright.

Percival’s chest heaves upward and he _moves_. He arches up with the force of his breath. His arms stretch out and try to leverage him up out of the ground.

Credence knows, suddenly, the terror of the Marys weeping at the tomb of Christ. He starts to cry.

Percival pulls himself out of the ground and laughs. 

“I’m alive!” he shouts into the rain and dawn. “Fuck! I’m alive!”

He grabs Credence with both arms even though it makes Credence shake. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Oh, Credence, thank you, thank you.”

He kisses Credence’s cheek and chin and mouth. He tastes like dirt. Credence’s own tongue tastes like acid. Percival holds him and kisses him until he stops crying and shaking.

The rain stops. The winter sun breaks golden fingers through the clouds. Both of them are soaking wet and filthy with mud.

“I’m alive and you’re alive,” Percival says. “We’re both alive.”

Credence turns his face away from Percival’s kisses.

“My sister,” he says. 

Percival pulls back and looks at him.

“Your sister?” he asks.

“My sister,” Credence says. “She’s in the Bronx. She’s all alone. She’s only eight. We have to —”

“We’ll find her,” Percival says. He looks focused and stern, despite the dirt and a few weeks of stubble on his face. Lines of pale skin show on his cheeks where rain or tears have washed the mud off.

“She’ll be frightened of both of us,” Credence says. 

“Then we’ll get help,” Percival says. “One of my aurors is very familiar with the Salemers case. You met her, I think — Porpentina Goldstein.”

“She tried to save me,” Credence admits, while Percival pulls him up by his elbows.

“Well, then, she ought to be happy to see you,” Percival says. His arm fits around Credence’s back comfortable. A snap of his fingers makes their clothes as good as new, though Credence’s hair is still too long and Percival has half a beard. They have looked better.

“I’m so happy to see you,” Percival says. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier in my life.”

He reaches across Credence’s chest and adjusts the silver peony on his black jacket. He smiles.

Credence doesn’t feel particularly happy, but he could. He thinks about the future: all the years he hasn’t lived yet and didn’t expect to.

Perhaps, he could be happy.


	4. Coda

Percival clutches the newspaper in his hands hard enough to crease and tear it. The fire crackles in the hearth, daring him to just throw the whole thing in there and watch Grindelwald’s name go up in flames.

But that would change nothing, whispers the fear holding him by the throat.

When the library door opens, he startles.

It must be Credence or Modesty. No one else would be able to get into the manor on such a day as this.

“Percival?” Credence asks.

Percival tosses the paper to the side and gets to his feet as steadily as he can.

“Credence,” he says. “I’m sorry I’ve been hiding away all day.”

The man standing at the door is obviously Credence — he has the same strong jaw and prominent nose, but there are lines around his dark eyes and light hairs in his slicked back style. The cut of his suit is surprising square and it fits him in a way that makes him look broader than his tall and narrow frame. 

“I remember this,” Credence says. “You told me about this.”

Up close, Credence looks even more like himself. Percival recognizes the faint scar beneath his eye and the freckle on the side of his nose. He fingers brush against the new wand in his pocket, but he has never felt the need to past revealing charms on Credence. He knows him as though it was his own blood that flowed through this man's veins and fueled the burning fire of his heart.

He blinks.

“I did?” Percival says.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Though, I suppose, you’re going to tell me about it, because it’s happening now.”

“What am I going to tell you?” Percival asks.

“That I walked into the library while you were reading the paper and ignoring dinner,” Credence says. “And I told you that I always thought this was your most handsome age, your forties, but that your hair looks even better after it’s gone fully silver.”

“Does it?” Percival asks, looking at the shock of white in the waves of Credence’s hair. 

Credence half-smiles in a way that deepens the creases at the corners of his eyes, as though he earned those lines with years of smiles like this one.

“Could I kiss you?” Credence asks. “For old time’s sake?”

Percival opens his mouth. “Am I still alive? In the time you came from.”

Credence lifts his left hand and touches the lapel of Percival’s smoking jacket that he’s worn all damn day, like some kind of layabout. The morning paper ruined his entire day.

“Yes,” Credence says. “You’re rather difficult to kill, I think. I expect you’ll live to be a hundred at this rate, with me there bothering you every moment of it.”

“I can’t imagine a better future,” Percival says. 

“Is,” he starts to ask.

Is Grindelwald dead? He wants to know. Is he still a threat? What are we going to do?

But Percival stops at the glint of metal on Credence’s hand. 

“That my mother’s ring?” he finishes.

The gold-framed ruby looks a familiar shade of nearly violet pink and is framed by four dark emeralds like the leaves of a rose — or perhaps not a rose, but some other flower. There are certainly better flowers that come in that particular shade of ruby.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Well, you had it… I forget the word, but it didn’t fit.”

“Oh,” Percival says. He cannot think of the word either. In fact, it’s difficult to think of anything when looking at the familiar stones of his mother’s engagement ring — which was his grandmother’s before her — on Credence’s finger.

“Do we… Are we…?” he says. 

He looks Credence in the eye, tracing the lines of his crow’s feet. His heart feels like it’s trembling inside his chest.

“I can’t tell you too much about the future,” Credence says. “It’s too precious to risk. I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

“Oh,” Percival says. He can feel himself smiling, as idiotically as he ever has in front of Credence. He feels like a boy, eager to hold Credence’s hand in his own and press their mouths together. 

“May I?” he asks, reaching for Credence’s left hand. He wants to feel the way the ring fits Credence, the way the metal will press against his skin when they hold hands.

“Of course,” Credence says. 

Percival puts his fingers between Credence’s and squeezes him until his own palm sweats. He feels the blood in his face. He can’t stop looking at Credence’s eyes. He wants to love this man the same way he loves the younger one he’s more used to seeing. He wants to love Credence until his dying day.

“Do I tell you that we kiss?” Percival asks.

Credence smirks. “No, but I thought I’d ask.”

“I don’t want to do something wrong,” Percival says. He doesn’t want to risk their future happiness for one kiss.

But the lopsided shape of Credence’s smile and the easy way he makes it — the way it fits his face with such perfection — makes Percival ache right to his core.

“I love you,” Credence tells him. 

“Are we going to be…” he stops.

Before Credence walked through the door, Percival wondered how he could live in a world where Gellert Grindelwald also lived, and with such awful impunity.

The expression in Credence’s eyes softens. His smirk fades away.

Percival sees the way he will survive in the orange light of the fire reflected in Credence’s dark eyes. He leans in closer and closer. He does not close his eyes until Credence does so first. Their lips brush. Percival breathes in the scent of Credence’s skin. Their mouths press closer and closer, until Credence’s lower lip touches Percival’s teeth. 

Credence sighs and Percival feels as though he lives for the air that Credence breathes into him.

He pulls away.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning until his forehead touches Credence’s brow. 

“I think that I should leave, Percival,” Credence says. 

Percival takes a step backwards and nods.

“I should go find… well, you,” he says, gesturing at Credence, “and ask about dinner.”

Something about this makes Credence grin suddenly. The expression creases his eyes nearly shut. Percival recognizes the chip in one of his front teeth. He knows how the shape of it feels against his tongue.

“Yes,” Credence says. “I think you should do that.”

Percival smiles and then ducks his head. He lets go of Credence’s hand and rubs the side of his finger where the band of the ring has pressed a small mark into his skin.

“I adore you,” Credence says.

“You know that I do as well,” Percival says.

“I do,” Credence tells him.

They walk to the door together, but when Percival goes to hold it open for Credence he’s already gone as suddenly as ever. For the first time, Percival doesn’t feel the frantic need to search for Credence. Wherever he has gone, he is safe and loved.

Percival can’t stop smiling. He combs his hand through his hair and then shakes his head. 

He walks through the halls as though there’s a levitating charm in his heels.

He walks through an open parlor to find Modesty sitting with her shoes on the cushions of her favorite chair and one of Percival’s oldest school books in her lap.

“Good evening, Miss,” he says. 

She looks up and the heels of her shoes smack against the legs of the chair when she moves quickly to put her feet down.

“Good evening,” she says, looking wide-eyed.

“Did you and Credence have dinner already?” he asks her.

She nods. “He said we didn’t have to wait for you.”

“He was right,” Percival says.

“He went out to the garden after,” Modesty says, “but I think he came back inside already.”

“Thank you,” Percival says, bowing his head to her slightly. She watches him walk away and he feels her apprehension like a hand against the back of his neck. He would bet money that she puts her shoes back on the chair as soon as he’s out of sight. 

But it hardly matters.

He finds Credence in their bedroom, which was a hopeful and lucky guess.

“We ate without you,” Credence says, as his way of greeting. He does not frown at Percival, but there’s a weight to his voice.

“I have to tell you about something that just happened,” Percival says.

**Author's Note:**

> I am [jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s](jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
